Sung to the tune of Santa Baby

(Original lyrics written by J. Javits and P. Springer, originally sung by Ertha Kitt)

Santa Sir,
slip a ball-gag underneath the tree,
for me
I’ve been a naughty bad boy
Santa Sir,
hurry down my chimney tonight

Santa Sir,
a rocking bondage bed too
me
you

I’ll wait up for you Sir

Santa Sir,
hurry down my chimney tonight

Think of all the dudes
that I fist
Think of all the fellas that I’d
gone and kissed
Next year
I could be oh so bad
If you’d check
off
my Christmas list

Santa hottie
I want a sex swing
and really
that’s not extreme
I’ve been a devil all year

Santa Sir,
hurry down my chimney tonight

Santa sexy,
there’s one thing I really require
submissive guys
to fuel my fire

Santa sexy,
slide it down my chimney tonight

Santa Sir,
You’ll blow my stocking with hard-core vid,
Don’t kid
Lace a grid on the bed
Santa Sir,
and hurry down my chimney tonight

Come and trim
my Christmas tree
With a leg spreader
just don’t flee

you see
I really do believe in you
Let’s see if you believe in me
‘cause it’s trust
we do

Santa Sir,
forgot to mention one thing
a ring
I don’t mean on the phone
Santa Sir,
stuff it down the chimney tonight

Stuff my chimney tonight
Fuck me up the chimney
to-night

Merry Fucking Christmas you all!

2010 A.V. PRIDE Details:

Date: June 19, 2010

Time: 10:00am – 5:00pm

Location: Poncitlan Square, 38315 9th Street East Palmdale , CA 93550

http://www.avglbtcenter.com/av_pride_2010

January 17, join James at Kink On Tap the smart sexuality netcast for the kinkily inclined.

Tired of the pulp eroticization of sexuality? Annoyed by the self-aggrandizement of sex bloggers? Want a more thoughtful, heartier, smarter approach to sexuality, society, culture, feminism, and queer activism? These are the droids you’re looking for.  Kink On Tap is more than just a netcast about sexuality; it’s also a community of people for whom intelligent conversations about sexuality and how sexuality relates to other aspects of their lives is a motivating force for Doing Good.

The show will air live on Sunday, January 17, 2010, 8pm Eastern-5pm Central http://live.kinkontap.com/ you can log in, listen and chat in real time during the show.

I was wondering if you could cram a couple of more hours into the day.  Between the Evil-Day-Job, the Spawn, eating, sleeping, Dommeing…I really need a few more hours to fit writing in.  Yeah, I’d be trimmer if I cut out the eating part, but then I’d pass out while roaring down the 101, flip the bike and it just wouldn’t be pretty. 

Do you think the elves could develop plot bunny birth control?  I’d like to finish one project before a dozen ideas for other’s are born.  It’s not so much that I mind the overabundance of story lines, it’s just that they tend to mature and hop off somewhere else to find their destiny as card-sharks or pole-dancers before I can catch them. 

Intravenous Caffeine.  You of all people have to understand the glory of the concept. If you can’t add any time to the day at least I could be hyper and amped at later, or earlier, hours.   

Maybe you could manage for all the ultra conservatives to wake up on Christmas morning with the sudden realization that if they put all the energy they use fighting against things like Marriage For All, Inclusive Hate Crime Bills, repeal of exclusion of GLBT in the military and expansive Reproductive Health and Sex Education, into say solving world hunger….shit, can you imagine what they could accomplish?   That’s probably pushing it huh?

Alright, well, then maybe Santa, you might manage to get a few people to just make another person’s day a little brighter with a smile, or by opening a door, or just telling the poor wage-slave behind the Micky-Ds counter, “thanks.”  If we could start there, I’d be happy.

That’s about it.  Don’t bust the elves too hard and maybe get the reindeer a new whip, ‘cause we all know they like that crack across their rumps.  Take care,

Love

James

Hunting a notorious hit man, FBI Agent Chase Nozick and LAPD Det. Enrique Rios Ocha delve into the inner worlds of Santeria, Voodoo and Palo Mayumbe. A missing informant, her murdered brother and a ghost from Chase’s past send them on a hunt through mystics and psychic surgeons to find their witness before it’s too late. Can he rely on leads from a child possessed by Orishas? Do cards hold stronger clues than blood? Chase must conquer his own personal demons to bring the killer of his partner to justice and find the strength to take a chance on Enrique.

********************************

Chapter One

Desert heat sucked the sweat from Special Agent Chase Nozick’s pores. “Give it up, Garcia!” he yelled. Somehow, he’d managed to shrug into the soft body armor as he slid out the car. Sweat pooled under the vest, plastering his suit jacket, dress shirt and tie to his skin. Damn, it was hot. Chase snorted as he leaned over the hood of his Bureau-issued car. The last thing he really needed to care about was how hot it was.

He aimed his 9mm at the driver’s side window of a pinned Escalade and yelled again, “I mean now!”

Chase never felt calmer. The situation flew by in sharp focus. He smelled oil burning off his Buick’s engine. The pop and hiss of the SUV’s radiator puking over the trunk of the Buick stung his ears. In his peripheral vision, Chase watched Jason crab-walk around the back of the SUV. Sand shifted under the feet of Chase’s partner, Jason Olhms, each grating grain distinguishable from another. Overlaid across it was Garcia’s cursing as he fought with his seatbelt. The impact from Chase’s car must have jammed it when he reversed the Buick directly into Garcia’s fleeing vehicle. One of Garcia’s ever-present goons lay slumped against the dash, his mirrored sunglasses hanging off his face at a bizarre angle. The spider web fracture on the windshield and open doll eyes told Chase the guy wasn’t going anywhere in the near future.

“Come on, Garcia!” he barked.

Garcia looked up. An evil, murderous smile ripped across his mouth. Flat brown eyes, soulless eyes, stared out from under a heavy brow. Chase heard the snap-click of a hammer going back. A hole burst through the SUV’s door. One, two, three rapid blasts shattered the air. A pair of bullets whizzed by Chase’s head. Then the vuv-pop of a ricochet sounded. Pain bloomed in the back of Chase’s neck.

He blinked. Garcia twisted. The gun hidden in his lap came up and pointed out the passenger side of the SUV. Jason stood. Chase’s voice froze as he tried to croak out a warning. Red mist exploded where Jason’s face had been. Chase pulled his trigger. Once, just once. Garcia slumped in his seat.

The world shifted, spun as Chase tried to stand. Hot and sticky, blood pumped down under his vest. Chase sucked in a breath and pain rampaged through his body. There wasn’t time to check Garcia’s status. Jason…Chase figured him for dead already. Even if he wasn’t, every second counted for his own survival. Knees weak and stomach rolling, he reached up and pressed his free hand to the torn flesh of his neck. Chase shook so bad he could barely keep the gun trained on where Garcia had been.

He had to get help. He had to get help fast.

Chase staggered back to driver’s side of the Buick. It took all his will to wrench the door open and slide into the driver’s seat. He fumbled the mike, trying to key it. Slick with blood and sweat, it slid to the floor. Chase almost cried. Bending down sent waves of agony screaming through his neck. He took a deep breath and reached for it.

The world went black.

Don’t fear dying, fear not having lived. ~anon 

Today, Nov.1, is All Saints, known in Mexico as La Dia de los Angelitos, the angels. It is the day to honor the dead children.  The dead come home to be feasted by their families, graves are cleaned, painted and dressed with marigolds, and the lives of those before us are remembered.

It is far from a mournful tradition.  Families picnic in the grave yards to be near those they love.  Skulls and skeletons are not gruesome objects of fear but reverent icons to remind us that this is just one world and another awaits.

The path back to the living world must not be made slippery by tears. ~anon

Originally the festival was Aztec in origin, took a month and was held in August.  That month and the celebrations were in honor of Mictecacihuatl – she who died at birth, the Lady of the Dead.  When the Spaniards came, the Catholic Church moved the celebrations to All Saints Day under their “if you can’t squash it, subvert it policy.”  They sanitized out the goddess and put in all their saints. 

Guess what, she’s back.  In the great Mexican tradition of the Cult of the Virgin Mary and the technique of subversion learned so well there is a new Lady of Death.  La Santisima Muerte: the Most Holy Lady of Death, incarnation of the Virgin Mary and heir to the throne of Mictecacihuatl. The worship of her has spread across the urban areas of Mexico and into the US to be assimilated by other Latin American communities as well.  She is considered the patron folk-saint of drug dealers, prostitutes and cops.

And she, La Huesuda (the Lady of Bones), and Los Dias De Los Muertos figure prominently in my recent release Personal Demons. 

Here’s an excerpt from Personal Demons:

Without much warning, Chase came face-to-face with the scene. Rodrigo, Chase recognized his mug from the pictures, lay on his stomach, head turned to the side, and one arm flopped across his back. The other flung out to the side and rested across the ring of marigold blossoms that circled his body. Flies crawled across glassy eyes, and crosses in white and red painted Renaldo’s face and down his arms. Each line ended in a dot, an arrow or a fork.

Well-rehearsed, the LAPD team of specialists did their dance around the body. At the periphery, a coroner’s crew waited with their bright blue body bag to take custody of the corpse.

A woman, her hair pulled tight back and wearing a better suit than her male counterparts, caught sight of them. In fact, she and Chase were the only two wearing actual suits, everyone else barely qualified as business casual. She said something to a trio of techs before picking her way toward Chase and Enrique. After introducing herself as Detective Wyatt, exchanging the brief necessities of rank and protocol, she filled them in. “We figure he was shot first over there,” Wyatt waved one manicured hand back the way Chase’d come. “About fifteen feet and crawled back this way. They shot him twice more as he crawled. The last bullet, the one to his head, likely killed him where he ended up.”

“Why do you figure a they?” Enrique spoke the question Chase’d been thinking.

Wyatt glared, like she thought Enrique yanked her instead of just asking the first obvious question. Her response was clipped with the efficiency of a woman used to being treated as slightly inferior to the men she outranked. “Rodrigo’s a big guy, a bad ass, ballsy guy. One man wouldn’t have been enough to intimidate him into coming down here. Drag him down, neither.”

This time Chase, keeping his tone as neutral as possible, asked the question. “What if he walked down on his own?” Or they had enough guys to make it impossible to fight.

“Hard to see someone who doesn’t want to be down here,” Enrique folded his arms over his chest, “being dragged down here.”

“Think he was meeting someone?” Chase asked the question of both detectives.

“I’d bet on that…” Wyatt’s mouth went tight. “Not a hundred percent thing, but damn good odds.”

Enrique paced a few steps, looking at the body from various angles. “I think someone he trusted lured him down, maybe.” Looking to Wyatt, his tone said he was asking her opinion, not overriding her. Careful not to disturb the ring of flowers, he squatted near Fuertes. “Or maybe someone he didn’t trust, but that he had to meet even if he didn’t want to.” Enrique turned his attention back to the corpse.

“So, Ochoa,” Wyatt studied Enrique as he studied Fuertes. The cool, calculated once up and once down echoed a woman used to sizing up co-workers as potential opponents. “What’s with the flowers? And the X’s all over him? You know about this shit right?”

“Some of it. The marigolds are a Mexican thing. Americans leave roses on graves, Mexicans leave marigolds. Why they’re with Fuertes, I don’t know.” Enrique’s gaze flicked up. “Those,” he traced the air indicating one of the marks on the dead man’s skin, “are the symbols of Eshu.”

Without thinking, Chase responded with a, “Bless you.”

That rated Chase a glare from Enrique and a snort from Wyatt. “I didn’t sneeze.” Enrique coughed. “Eshu, also Exu, Echu or a bunch of other variants, is a deity in a lot of Afro-Caribbean religions.”

“Eshu?”

“Eshu is the devil…sort of.” Standing, Enrique crossed his arms over his chest and thought for a moment. Slowly, like he felt a little embarrassed at knowing what he knew. “Okay, the quick and dirty version. Religions of the Caribbean come from slave religions that got all mixed up with Catholicism. The master said pray to his god, and he was likely Spanish or Portuguese. So, his god had saints who all meant something and you prayed to them. It wasn’t so hard to say this saint of water is this god of water, at least if you didn’t want to get beaten for praying to your old traditional gods. Stick their statues in with your symbols and everyone thinks it’s cute that the dumb slaves like the statues.”

“And Eshu is the devil?” Wyatt didn’t sound like she was buying.

Without seeming to take offense, Enrique shrugged. “Eshu is like Lucifer because he’s always in conflict with Ologun the creator. But in many Caribbean religions Eshu is also the only one who speaks directly to Ologun. If you want something done, you ask Eshu…” he smirked. “Just be careful of what he asks for in return.”

You can buy it here!

It’s the trick or treat season so for October’s In The Flesh at Hustler Hollywood we’re giving you some scary tales and some gothic stories to get you in the mood for all those parties where you can wear the stuff you’d like to wear every day because to quote Ministry – Everyday Is Halloween (which I’m sure I’ll be playing as I spin some mood-setting music while you munch on some tasty sweet samples from the Hustler cafe) – oh and just in case you really need a sexy little outfit or toy Hustler Hollywood has the goods.

As does In The Flesh – we have Eden Bradley reading from The Seeking Kiss, James Buchanan reading from Personal Demons and Stan Kent reading from the Shoe Leather series which features Halloween as a key night in the saga along with shoes of all kinds.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009 at 8pm I’m IN THE FLESH in the City of the Angels…and what better place to be in the month of dark tricks and treats!

Come stop by for some Steamy, Creepy reading in honor of Halloween.  Anyone who knows me, know this is my favorite time of year. And, because it’s MC Stan Kent’s Birthday week there will be Hustler giveaway bags for the people wearing the coolest fuck-me shoes. I’ll have Halloween Treat Bags for the first 20 people that show.  Plus, I may drag along a naughty Birthday Cake for the Birthday Boy!  There’s nosh, there’s music and there’s smut…what could be better?

In The Flesh: L.A. is a monthly reading series held the second Wednesday of every month at Hustler Hollywood.   Hustler Hollywood is located at 8920 Sunset Boulevard, West Hollywood, CA 90069.  Tel: (310) 860 9009. Free underground parking on-site!

Agent Nick O’Malley and Det. Brandon Carr are back. Nick heads to Riverside, California, center of the Inland Empire and Brandon’s home turf. But every minute Nick’s in Riverside threatens to out Brandon. When events embroil Nick in one of Brandon’s investigations — gang hits, prostitution, illegal gambling and human trafficking – can they survive both?

*******************************

Prologue

Dark and broiling, a typical August smothered Riverside, California. David Huynh stood outside the Bang! PC Café, smoking a cigarette. At sixteen, he was too young to have bought them legally. At sixteen, he was too young to be in the café past the ten p.m. city curfew. Neither of those things bothered David much.

All he cared about was the lack of available computers. David wanted to be online, playing soldier and killing other kids playing terrorists. Interactive play was so much better than going against a machine. Usually, he was in place and surfing the net before the major crowd showed up. Tonight he’d worked late at his uncle’s convenience store and it set him behind. He pulled another drag. Sooner or later someone would run out of money and then David could take his spot.

A high-buffed Nissan pulled into the lot. Metallic gold paint along the hood melded into candy orange by the time it reached the aftermarket spoiler. Every window was tinted well past legal limits. A dragon crawled across the top of the windshield, almost undulating in time to low-level base that throbbed from God knew how many speakers. As the car screeched to a standstill, engraved chrome and 24-carat gold rims spun like whirligigs, and multicolored lights chased themselves across the hood. Hydraulics hissed as the Nissan’s body juddered downwards.

The pimped-out ride held David’s attention for all of a minute. Then he looked back into the café. Still no empty seats. When he turned back around, the passenger window was down. A barrel appeared.

David opened his mouth to scream.

The shotgun blast cut it off.

Chapter One

Brandon gnawed on a stale candy bar substituted for actual lunch and tried to maintain the proper aura of ennui in the chaos before their briefing. Task force; the phrase was enough to get him hard. And for the first time ever he was on one. Of all the detectives in Vice, he and Weaver were chosen. Weaver, his partner, had rolled his eyes and groaned at the news. Brandon quietly went for a smoke and did his private happy dance at the top of the municipal garage.

Cops sat a little straighter and feet formerly supported by tables hit the floor as a uniformed lieutenant burst through the door. Like all officers, Brandon knew the moment the brass left the holy hill of downtown, different rules applied. Narcotics, Vice, Homicide, and various gang units crowded the room, warily watching the man move to the briefing podium. “Okay people,” a dark hand ran through salt-and-pepper hair. “Y’all know why you’re here. Take notes, we’re moving fast.” He perched on the edge of the desk at the head of the room. “David Huynh, born Huynh Quan, was shot three days ago in front of an Internet café. Shotgun blast to the gut. Boy’s alive, but critical. Homicide will interview him as soon as he comes to. This has all the hallmarks of your classic gang payback hit. But, other than an online habit, we haven’t been able to mark Huynh as either a member or associate. We’re probably dealing with Asian gangs. For those who don’t know… hell, you can be a freakin’ honor student and get jumped into a gang.”

The lieutenant snapped his fingers at one of the uniforms, signaling him to get busy handing out information. “Asian gangs are very fluid, kids may belong to one or more.” Briefing packets were tossed across the tables like cards. “Most members won’t admit they even exist much less who belongs. They don’t wear colors, although most have names. We think,” he gave a nod towards the uniformed members of the gang unit, “that this was a Khát Máu payback. That’s Thirst for Blood for you rednecks who don’t speak Vietnamese. Not against the kid, but against the café owners. But it could have easily been the County Line Boys or the San Diego Street Dragons, ‘cause nobody’s jumping up and claiming this hit. Vice and the gang units are constantly rousting underage kids after curfew. Revenue is down in a lot of these cybercafés. We think some of them are turning to other income sources. Naturals are drugs and gambling. So we got Homicide, Narc, Gang Detail and Vice. Who needs introductions here?”

One of the gang squad broke in, “Sir, I’ve got to get my Polaroid.”

“What for?”

She pointed at Brandon, where his tattoos crawled out from under his T-shirt. “Cop biker gangs,” she teased, “somebody’s got to log those tats into the database.”

The lieutenant glared. “Okay, you want to take pictures of pretty boy without his shirt on, you two work it out between yourselves.” Cat calls and whistles broke out across the room and Brandon groaned. He so did not want to be the center of attention. The lieutenant let it work out of their systems for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers. “Alright children, come on. Focus. I’m turning it over to the specialists now. Officer Belasteros will bring you up to speed.”

“Honestly,” a short Hispanic officer stood as she spoke. “We’re not going to find ink on most of these kids.” Soft voice, but all business, the officer knew her stuff. “They’ve wised up that tats mean we can spot them easily. Scars are more likely: cigarette burns on the forearms,” her fingers indicated the spots on her own body, “and back are most common. In the Vietnamese gangs, these burns are usually in a group of five in a cross. Loosely, it means ‘me alone against the world surrounding me.’ They’ve also co-opted the ‘vida loca’ of the Hispanic gangs. Three burns in a row or triangle. They are still not overly territorial. The Khát Máu are small but they have members in San Diego, Orange, Riverside, San Bernardino and LA counties. They often ransack a business and then shake it down to pay protection against further raids. We think that some of them are hooking up with the old Chinese Triads. Unlike the usual gang member, these kids don’t care as much about status and honor. They’re not looking for props. It’s strictly business.”

“In Vietnam they are known as bui doi, dust of life, street kids that no one cares about. They’re ruthless. They’re violent. Every day they’re alive is just another day. They have cop killers in their midst. They tend to be big into the home invasion robbery racket. You’ll find more details in your briefing packets, including estimated numbers and associations.”

She smiled at the lieutenant, taking her seat as he stood. “Okay, that’s the basics. We’re working together on this, folks. It needs to stop and we’re going to see to it that it does. So, let’s get to it. We’ll be meeting here at least once a week for a full report from everyone, but I’ll expect you all to be talking a hell of a lot more than that. And I know you all still have regular case loads to work, but this goes to the top of the stack of priorities.” Clapping his hands together, the lieutenant signaled that it was over. “Everyone read up on the briefing packets. I’m going to expect to meet again Wednesday after next. Go over everything you’ve already got on your plates, look at your old cases… it’s the odd little facts you already have in the back of your heads that are going to help us break these bangers. I’ll expect reports from each division next time around. That’s it, head on out.”

Weaver grumbled under his breath as they joined the mass exodus. Brandon had to dodge and swerve to keep up, but Weaver just plowed on through, his frame tending to cut a swath through any crowd. Catching up to him at the door to Vice, Brandon snagged Weaver’s collar to get his attention. “We got anything going on tonight?”

One eyebrow crawled up as Weaver turned on his partner and crossed his arms; the quarterback stare Brandon had dubbed the look: part calculation, part intimidation.

Intimidation games had never worked well on Brandon, especially Weaver’s. While Brandon carried less bulk, he had more muscle and at least a few inches on his partner in the height department. That meant Weaver had to look up to stare him down. Brandon snorted. “I need to bail for a bit later and go run an errand.”

Settling his mass against the doorjamb, Weaver thought for a moment. “What errand, Baby D?” Weaver was as much his supervisor as partner.

Brandon waited for a group of uniforms to pass before answering. When he did respond, he kept his voice low. “I got to…” he hesitated a bit, “pick up Nicky at the airport.” He and Weaver were still at the not-comfortable-with-my-partner-being-gay phase. Not that Jeff said anything. But Brandon could tell. Any time the conversation went anywhere near Nicky, Weaver was quick to change the subject. “Now that the asshole who tried to kill him has pleaded, he can get his car back. We’re going to grab it out of CHP impound while he’s here.”

“Hmm.” Weaver stared across the hall, drumming his fingers on his arm. “What time does his flight get in?”

Not wanting to discuss it where anyone other than Weaver might hear, Brandon pushed past him into the cramped den inhabited by Vice. Chestnut Station was marginally better than Orange Street HQ, but it had been built when detectives still dressed in suits and used rotary dialed telephones. Unplanned urban sprawl had hit the city so fast that they just kept jamming desks in instead of building something more modern. Threading through the maze of file cabinets, desks, and chairs, Brandon grabbed his messages out of the mailbox. Only the big guys got voicemail.

Perching on the edge of someone’s workspace, Brandon flipped through the slips of paper. Nothing terribly urgent, just a few follow-up calls on some of his old cases. “Ten thirtyish. I’ll take it as a dinner break.” He and Weaver were currently on the two-to-twelve shift.

Still framed in the doorway, Weaver grumbled. “We got to hit the street in a bit.” Weaver’s eyes went narrow. “So after we do our little interview with the guy who claims some other Joe is running a stable out of his joint, you want me to ferry your ass all the way back here so you can get your bike? That’ll be an hour round trip at least. You’ll be late.”

“I’ll be quick.” Nervous habit kicking in, Brandon fiddled with the series of rings running down the outside of his ear. He’d have had to lose the jewelry on any assignment other than Vice. “I told Nicky I might be a little late.” If Nicky had been a girlfriend, instead of a boyfriend, nobody would have given a damn about him taking a little personal time.

Glancing at his watch, Weaver growled. “Fuck, Brandon, it’s four now. There’s at least two hours worth of reports sitting there. We’re supposed to meet our complainant at eight. Plus actually do some police work.” Like he was trying to pound brains into Brandon’s skull, Weaver reached out and thumped Brandon’s forehead with thick fingers. “Look, we’ll go talk to our guy and then we’ll head over to the airport.”

“You don’t have to, Jeff. It’s out of your way and I can just handle it.”

“Actually, coming back here is really out of my way.” Weaver coughed and pushed away from the wall. “But you know what, I’m kinda curious. I want to see what kinda guy could make you become Mr. Responsibility all of a sudden. Almost every week you’re out to see him. ‘I can’t make dinner at your place ‘cause Nicky needs me to drive him to physical therapy tomorrow.’ In Vegas, no less. I know guys who’ve married girls they didn’t do that shit for. So, I want to know.”

Brandon shrugged and he fell into step beside his partner as they headed toward the mass of files awaiting their attention. “You’ve never asked to see a picture or anything.”

“You’ve,” Weaver thumped the edge of Brandon’s high-and-tight hair cut with his index finger, “never offered to show me one.”

“True.” Brandon shrugged, “I never have.”

Deputy Joe Peterson is Mormon and in the closet. Then ex-con Kabe Varghese lands in town on parole. When a tourist falls off the mountain, Joe finds he needs the help of this cliff climbing adrenaline junky to solve the case. Will Kabe tear him apart or does Joe need to fall hard before he can start living?
Read an Excerpt.