The Epic Interview of Eric The Arvin

I feel that this painting alone can relay the EPICNESS of the interview I did HERE. All shall read and despair!!!

EXCERPT: Suburbilicious

From Book 2 in my Jasper Lane series, Suburbilicious. Here we find gay dad Terrence on a father/son outing with the son he had no idea existed until recently.

Tessa, the name of Terrence’s one-night trist with the puzzle that was heterosexuality, had put together the trip to the father/son camp as a surprise for both Terrence and their son, Christian. She had done this because she knew that they needed to spend more time together. Of her own admission, she hadn’t even let Terrence know about Christian (Terrence called him Chris, for reasons of obvious aversion) for the first sixteen years of their son’s life because she wanted him to be raised with her own ideals. She realized the folly of this now, and sought to rectify the error by any means she could.

It was a long drive from Jasper Lane in the compact minivan; an all-nighter. They would have been there sooner but Terrence insisted on stopping by every antique store they passed, and there were a lot of them. Chris liked browsing, so this was not something he fussed over in the beginning. But by the time they were through browsing (or the shop owners had thrown them out), the minivan kept getting more and more compact.

“Dad, no more!” Chris eventually had to put his foot down. He said it with a bight smile, though. He said everything with a bright smile. He could have said “Rupert Murdoch is president” and still be smiling as the world collapsed around them.

Chris realized this was par for the course with his father, this semi-parenting of Terrence. For their trip, Chris had packed a few items of basic clothing that he could reuse; he had also brought camping gear, and Terrence had helped him pack the tent in the back. There would be plenty of room for them in the mini-van, he had first supposed. But that was all before Terrence began loading his “basics” into the van. Terrence had brought luggage. He had packed every creature comfort he could think of: an electric toothbrush, his iPod, his laptop (and a small library of the best of Falcon porn), and the latest issues of every magazine he subscribed to, all 26 of them. Chris just laughed as he stood alongside David and Cliff, the three watching Terrence struggle with his load of unnecessary necessities. “That’s our Terry!” their expressions seemed to say.

Once they finally arrived at the camp, which consisted mostly of pines and lakes spotted by barren patches designated for the tents (the only stable structures was the check-in and the latrines), it was Chris who realized exactly what type of vacation his mother had planned for the two of them. He wondered when Terrence would notice, but, thankfully, he didn’t seem to be paying too much attention to what was going on.

God, thank you for laptops and gay porn DVDs!

Terrence had completely missed the three crosses at the camp’s entrance, and, to Chris’ relief, his father had even skimmed over the rather obvious Christian feel and look of the check-in as they approached it. Chris held his breath the entire time, but there was no grand explosion of horror. Terrence was completely unaware even without his DVDs. Chris thought it would have been humorous, if it weren’t so sad. Instead of paying attention to the crucifix-decorated welcome forms he was signing or the “Jesus loves you” pen he was holding or the collar-wearing older man who was welcoming them, Terrence was busy checking out the only other father to arrive as of yet, a cute GQ-ish number with gorgeous, executive hair and wearing a plaid shirt. Chris was thankful for this, otherwise their vacation together would have ended sooner than…well, a gay man’s vacation at a Bible camp.

The old priest or preacher or shaman – whatever he was – the old man who had welcomed them shook Terrence’s hand, but Terrence hardly noticed. He had caught the other father’s eye, trying to reel him in. Quickly, Chris acted. He pulled at his father like an anxious child ready to go to the fishin’ hole and soon enough they were out the door with the directions to their designated campsite.

“Did you get a look at that!” Terrence whispered. “Oh, daddy!” Then, remembering he was with his son, he straightened up, somewhat embarrassed.

“This ain’t the Dunes in Saugatuck,” Chris jibed. “Here are the directions. It’s not too far. I’ll drive.”

They first carried the large green army tent they had borrowed from James (well, Rick gave it to them technically without telling James) from the minivan. Sitting it down, they surveyed their surroundings. They were given a spot at the rear of the campground near the woods and the lake. Terrence liked this. From here he could watch the other fathers arrive, and slowly divide and conquer.

“I wonder where Paul Bunyon from check-in will be?”

Chris shook his head in mock disappointment. “This isn’t a monastery, Dad. Mom sent us here to spend more time together.”

“And we will,” Terrence assured him. “But I’m sure there are going to be times when you want to be alone with the other boys your age.”

“Right.” Chris smirked.

“I’ll start unpacking!” Terrence proclaimed excitedly as he sauntered back to the minivan. It was the sauntering that made Chris giggle. Terrence was like a chameleon, he changed every five minutes, trying the butch routine here, the more fem there. Turned on by superheroes one day and cowboys the next. Even his hair was a constant show of changing personal taste. When Chris had first met Terrence the year before his head was shorn as clean as a cue ball. Now, he wore a stylishly messy blond mop. Chris sighed. What a great dad!

Chris busied himself with unpacking the tent so that the canvas lay square on the ground. He set the pegs and rods to the side, knowing that one of the competitions described at check-in was the raising of the tents. Kind of like a barn-raising, he supposed, but pointless. When done he watched squat on the ground as Terrence fumbled his way in and out of the minivan. It was immediately an enjoyable show, so he tore open the beef jerky he had bought at one of the previous nights’ numerous pit stops and chewed hungrily.

“Hello, young man,” came a kindly voice from the dirt road near the campsite. The preacher/pastor/shaman who had checked them in earlier was walking toward their site, kicking up dust onto his black ensemble with his shiny black shoes. “Christian, right?” he said, coming to a stop in front of Chris. Terrence remained by the minivan, still fighting with his luggage. Chris was able to keep an eye on his father over the preacher’s shoulder.

“That’s right,” Chris replied with his trademark smile. He was hoping desperately that Terrence would be too consumed with his testy luggage to actually recognize the old man was an old man of the cloth, and was relieved when the old man didn’t repeat his name, Father Donaghan.

“Very appropriate for this place, your name is.” He chuckled. “I just came by to tell you something I forgot. Check-ins are always so confusing for me. The older I get....” He wasn’t a bad old man, Chris thought. Rather grandfatherly in fact. Wilford Brimley-ish, but not as hefty. “I came to invite you to the prayer circle this afternoon” (Terrence straightening, ears seeming to perk up to the sound of danger) “, a circle of Christian and brotherly love” (Terrence turning in their direction, a deer caught in the headlights) “a joyous praising of the Lord.”

At once, Terrence dropped his luggage and bounded into the woods, desperate for escape. Father Donaghan heard the luggage drop, but was too slow to see Terrence flee into God’s wilderness.

“Looks like you’ve overpacked my boy,” he said, noting the spilled luggage.

“Looks like,” Chris agreed anxiously.

Kindly refusing the old pastor’s generous and continuous offers to help him get things settled, Chris finally saw Father Donaghan off and at once leaped into the forest after Terrence. It didn’t take him long to find his father. The sounds of a cell phone’s keys being punched frantically led him around a thick wall of ferns and brush.

“What are you doing?” Chris asked.

“Calling your mother,” Terrence hissed. “She did this on purpose. Did you know about this? Oh, it’s an evil plot! I’ve never been more Barbara Stanwyck than now.”

Chris took the phone from him without much struggle. Terrence simply wasn’t expecting it.

“What are you doing? Give that back!”

“You’ll get it back when we head home. Not a moment before.” He closed the phone before Tessa could answer and stuffed the cell into his pocket. “Now come on. Let’s get things unpacked. Christian or not, you’re going to have fun here. And you’re going to have that fun with me. Got it?” He turned to go, expecting Terrence to follow.

After a few steps he heard a rustle in the brush and turned to see Terrence still hidden behind leaves and trees. His fingers pulled away the leaves just slight enough so that he could see out. “Is he gone?” he whispered loudly. “Is the church man gone?”

“Stop that!” Chris whisper-shouted back. “Stop hiding behind bushes. You look creepy!”

“Don’t talk to your father in that tone of voice!”

“If you don’t come from behind there I swear to God, I’ll...”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll scratch every DVD you brought with you!”

There was an audible gasp, more rustling, and then Terrence emerged from nature as if nothing had happened. “Let’s go raise a tent,” he said, walking briskly past his son.

The Traveling Arvin-bury Takes a Fall Trip

One should never plan a trip to the floor. Spontaneity is the key, my friends. This will set your new trip apart from any you've taken before. Just get up one day and go. Or try to. Nothing brings on error like the good ol' college try.

First, you must start out in a good mood so your false sense of infallibility can be righteously squelched. Also, for maximum confusatory status, I recommend you take the trip in the morning. A floor never looks so foreign as when you've just woken up and are hurtling toward it unimpeded by those annoying catchalls like chairs or desks. I have found that an extra long bed sheet trailing off the mattress onto the floor and curled up like a python is quite helpful in getting things started.

On your trip you will have many familiar experiences in brand new ways. Why, it'll feel as if you are tripping for the first time all over again! The dream-like confusion, the blood-chilling fear, and the humiliation. My oh my, the humiliation! If you fall in the company of others make certain you stand up quickly and act as if nothing happened. Nothing at all. It doesn't matter if you take a fall on live TV. Have the dignity and sense of self-preservation of a politician and deny it ever occurred.  You must walk away with the speed of an American tourist with Montezuma's Revenge. If you are alone when you take your trip, you must hit the ground with balled fists and cry for vengeance. Cry to heaven!

You will see many new things on your trip. You will see a chair or a table you think you know, and you will wave - you will wave frantically - but it will act as if it doesn't even know who you are. Some tables and chairs are unfortunately known for their rudeness. This is a cultural thing, having been carved into them when they were mere stools and nightstands. They are all somewhat stand-offish and rooted to their ways.

If you're lucky there will be a sense of strange slow motion to the fall, so you can experience every blabbering inner scream and cry of terror, every Holy shit! I'm falling! No, no, no, no! and every Why me, God? Why me? You may suddenly, if very briefly, find religion again. And then, very soon after, remember why you lost it in the first place after you receive absolutely no help from God's flaccid hand.

Brace yourself for impact upon arrival. Once you are there it will not seem half as intense as what you were expecting. Your head will not, in fact, fall off at the jolt and your plans for an Eva Peron style funeral in your honor will quickly be forgotten when you open your eyes again and squee silently I'm alive! Sweet Jebus, I'm alive!

Once you have seen what you want to see, once you've become acquainted with the dust bunnies under the bed and the dried piece of macaroni trumpeting your failure from under the desk, for god's sake, leave! But not without souvenirs. Be sure to pick up your bruises, and it's always polite to leave something behind. Maybe a big hole in the wall the size of your head. You want this trip to be remembered for years to come. Who knows when you'll have the opportunity to feel this humiliated again?

Oh, and be sure to give a call to your friends and family and let them know you've arrived at your surprise destination safely, and will soon be returning home. I'm positive they will be waiting for the exciting details of your trip, ready to laugh and laugh and laugh.

Shelvish

Love seeing my books on shelves. This I received today from radio personality Nate Karfield, some of my books at Stonewall Library. Four others are checked out.

EXCERPT: SubSurdity

Book #1 in the Jasper Lane series, Subsurdity. In this scene, Rick Cooper moves into the neighborhood:

Rick Cooper pulled into the driveway, his heart still pounding from his run-in with the curb. More truthfully, it was the sight of a sweaty, beefy muscle god in tiny, green shorts that flustered him. He was still a tad dumbfounded by the experience. If things had gone worse, if he had run into a house instead of trash cans, there would have been serious repercussions. He only had one eye. It would be a clear-cut case to any police officer.

“Ricky, baby!” came a shout from the lawn. Terrence sat in his green lawn chair in the center of the grass, holding a very large margarita in one hand and a very small pink cell phone in the other. “I’ll call you back,” he said quickly to the person on the other end.

“Hey, Terrence,” Rick greeted, as he got out of the rusty blue Festiva. 

“Is this all you brought?” Terrence asked, somewhat disappointedly as he approached the vehicle, peering in the back seat. He held his drink like a prized possession, high and out of harm’s way, sunglasses he had perched on his shaved head.

“I didn’t have much,” Rick answered, numbly. “Most of the stuff was Coby’s.”

“So, he gets everything? The apartment, the dog, the computer? The greedy slut!”

“Yeah, I didn’t buy too much when we were together.” Rick’s reply was simple, nonconfrontational.

“Well, how could you? I mean, he was using everything you made to support his gambling habit,” Terrence explained. “What an ass! And after your accident, too.” He shook his head in disdain before taking a gulp from his glass as one hand stayed permanently fixed to his hip.

“Well, it’s over now. All I’ve got are these few boxes of clothes and CDs.”

“We’ll soon fix that, baby!” Terrence grinned. “There are some fabulous places around here to shop.”

Rick could always count on Terrence to know the best shopping venues. Even in college he could smell out a unique shopping experience a mile away. But then, unique never much appealed to Rick.

“I like the shaved look,” Rick said, gesturing to Terrence’s dome.

“Why, thank you, darlin’,” Terrence replied in a faux southern accent. “I like the eye patch. It looks good on you. You can really pull that off.”

“Whatever,” Rick shrugged.

“No, really. Gives you character. It’s sexy.”

“I lost my eye, Terrence,” Rick said. “That’s not sexy.”

“You didn’t lose it. It was taken from you by that bastard of a boyfriend and his gambling debts. And then,” he exclaimed, clearly getting more intoxicated by the minute, “he goes and breaks your glass eye! Who breaks someone’s glass eye! I mean, really! You were living in a damn Tarantino film, my friend.”

Rick laughed dryly. “It’s good to see you, Terrence,” he said, giving his friend a hug. “Thanks for this, for letting me move in. You and David are great friends.”

“Don’t mention it, hon. It’s David’s house, though. I’m just staying here for a bit, too. Want a margarita before we unpack you?” David and Terrence had been the best of friends since college, yet they couldn’t have been more different. David was athletic and masculine, Terrence was artistic and a tad feminine. Somehow, though, they connected. There were times in college when Rick had felt like an outsider around the two of them-but then, Rick always felt like an outsider.

“No, thanks,” Rick declined. “What are you doing, drinking so early-and in the yard, no less?”

“David and I have been doing this for the past two weeks. You’re not the only newbie on the street.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“A big muscle man,” Terrence moaned. “He runs by here every day. Just moved into a house down the street. Yummy! He was in the military.” His eyes lit up with mischief.

“Oh, I think I saw him. Almost caused me to run off the road.”

“Uh-huh,” Terrence said, sipping his drink. “Speaking of you and the road, are you supposed to be driving? Isn’t that dangerous with the whole Cycloptic thing going on?”

Rick took a playful swipe at his friend’s cheek. “You’re the dangerous one,” he joked, as best he could.
His attention, though, was immediately drawn to a grey Hummer pulling into the driveway behind his Festiva. The bass thumped loudly, shaking windows down the street before it was silenced.

“Who is this?” he inquired, awestruck by the massive vehicle.

“Hmmm?” Terrence said, as he turned to look at the land yacht. “Oh. It’s just David.”

“David owns a Hummer?”

“Of course not! That’s his boyfriend’s.”

“Ricky!” David’s voice called from behind the passenger-side door as it opened. He struggled to get out of the beast without falling awkwardly to the ground. “My God! Ricky! How are you?” he yelled as he ran to his friend with arms wide.

David had clearly been to the gym recently. His arms were twice the size they once were. He’d been a wrestler all through high school and college, but he had never looked as swollen.

“I’m good, David. How are you?” Rick smiled.

“Oh, you know,” he shrugged off the question. “I’m so glad you’re going to live with us! And if that Coby or any of his gambling goons tries to come around here, we’ll sic Cliff on them.”

“Cliff?”

Rick’s question was answered as he saw the owner of the Hummer, a solid man built from muscle and veins, walking toward them in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, both of which were barely able to contain the bulges beneath.

“Rick, this is my boyfriend, Cliff,” David said with pride.

Cliff held out his huge hand with a square-jawed grin. “Hey there, Rick,” he said with a deep baritone of a voice.

“Hi,” Rick replied, taking the giant’s hand. “You’re huge.”

“Eh...it’s the steroids,” Cliff admitted, nonchalantly.

“Oh.” Was that supposed to lessen the wonder?

“Cliff, would you take Rick’s things inside?” David asked.

“You bet,” Cliff said.

He opened the Festiva’s back door, nearly tearing it from its hinges, and got almost the entire lot of clothing and CDs with one muscled embrace. He walked to the house with heavy strides as the three friends watched by the car.

“Where did you find him?” Rick inquired.

“Becky Ridgeworth, down the street,” David answered. “She knows a lot of guys in the film biz.”

“He’s an actor? I think I would remember if I saw him in anything. What has he been in?”

“You haven’t seen him in anything, believe me,” Terrence cut in, taking a break from the margarita. “You don’t watch porn.”

“He’s a porn actor?” Rick glanced at David with eyebrows raised. It was as exclamatory as he ever got.
David grinned widely and nodded. “Becky does copy writing for porn studios...on the sly, of course.”

“That’s amazing. I imagine it’s hard to breathe with that much man on top of you during sex, huh?” Rick winked.

“Oh, honey. Cliff’s a bottom,” David corrected.

Rick nearly fell over.

“Are you all right?” Terrence asked.

“Uh, yeah.” Rick steadied himself. “Depth perception,” he said, blaming his one eye. “Screws me up, that’s all.”

Cliff strode back out to the Festiva to retrieve the last bit of luggage. As he leaned into the backseat, Rick watched the muscular, steroid-enhanced ass.

“I’ll have that drink now,” he whispered to Terrence.

New Interview, Guest Starring Rick Reed & Cowboy Strippers

SJD Peterson~*~It's all in the touch: GayRomLit Author - Eric Arvin: GayRomLit - Eric Arvin - Virgin 1. The list of events is amazing. What are you looking forward to the most? The only thing I've...

The List: Italian Arvinio, HuffPo Arvin, & Arvin Around the World

1. The Italian language version of my book Galley Proof - titled Solo una bozza - was released this week, and next moth the Spanish version of Simple Men is released. My plan for world literary domination has begun. Release the hounds!!!

2. Screenwriter Michael Tennant and myself are on the prowl for producers/directors for the adaptation of my first novel The Rest Is Illusion. We have four directors interested and/or looking over the project as I type this. I am not above whorring myself out to get this thing produced.

3. The Oscars should be decided on like the Olympics. I for one would love to see Ryan Gosling wrestle Michael Fassbender for Best Actor...naked.

4. I have decided how exactly I want to tell my surreal hospital stay - the one that happened to me two years ago when I was deathy ill, in and out of a coma, with pneumonia. I'm going to write a book in either journal form or as a series of letters to some fictional character and title it The Pneumonia Memoirs. If it doesn't win the Pulitzer...well, I don't know what.

5. I was mentioned in the Huffington Post not once, but twice last week. Awesome, huh? My stock is rising, Number One. Soon I shall be eating at the finest restaurants in Madison, Indiana. No more McDonald's for me. I'm moving up to Hinkle's Hamburgers!

6. I've decided my new pre-New Years goal to take up travel writing doesn't go far enough. Instead, I want to start a travel company that caters to adventurous folk like myself who may have some physical issues but still have the NEED to see the world. I'm also going to contact the Travel Channel SOMEHOW and propose a program - maybe have a camera follow me around and document my travel joys and foibles. Of course I'll have a wacky gal pal for comic relief. It'll be like the Amazing Race...with Patsy & Edina. Anyone out there have connections at Travel Channel?

7. Bodybuilders should hire themselves out as stress relievers. Seriously. Who needs a stress ball when one loud smack on a bodybuilder's big bare ass is so much more satisfying. Just sayin'. They like it. They're all bottoms anyway. Am I right? Am I right? Yeah. You know I am. Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle yeah.

8. By the time Future Eric posts this blog piece on Sunday morning Past Eric will have finished the first draft of his epic speculative fiction piece Terms We Have For Dreaming, which he has been working on for the past 8 months. Present Eric is most excited about this. Now it us up to Far Future Eric to edit and clean this work up and make it sparkle and sing. All the other Erics will stand back in judgement if Far Future Eric should fail. They will laugh at him.

9. Reading Michael Flynn's Eifelheim, or trying to. Was distracted when I saw a blurb by sci-fi writer and gay hater Orson Scott Card on the back. Well, at least it was the back. I am firmly against damaging books but I will not have that man's name in my collection... so I cut the bottom half of the back cover off and threw it away. Silly? Perhaps. Petty? Not really, asshole. Satisfying? Immensely. I sure showed him!

10. This may come as a disappointment to some, but I am giving serious thought to shutting down my website Daventry Blue. Originally that site was meant to be for my writing, but somewhere along the way it became a dumping ground for EVERYTHING that caught my fancy, including hot sexy mens. And while I do enjoy hot sexy mens, you can find the same photos on any Tumblr site on the interweb. So, just fair warning. One day soon Daventry Blue may be no more.