"I love you...Me neither" (updated)

 If you're old enough, you'll remember the eternal French words "Je t'aime...Moi non plus", spoken by Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin, in what...let's look this up...in 1969 (meaning you possibly won't (remember)).

But we got struck by this not so jugendfreie poster on the internet...

We added the fig-leaves after having read a beautiful essay in The New Yorker about Nabokov's Lolita 

...and feel encouraged to engage in another act of self-promotion by invoking our novel "Green Eyes", which--regular readers of this blog may have come to regret--is always about everything, and so it's also about this song...

We're in Chapter 17 of the GREEN EYES, and the whole thing is NOT jugendfrei at all, so you'll read this at your own risk. John, the narrator, and Alex, the lead character, have met once before, and now they meet again--in Johns bed: 

We’re back in the bedroom. We finally embrace, kiss. This is it, this is the moment. Should Alex expect me to sink to my knees now, unbutton his fly, like in the porn flicks? Or unzip his zipper, most porn flicks are so cheap, they don’t have money for the more expensive, button-holed Levis—-unzip his cheaper jeans and start caressing his briefs with my lips, drawing the attention to his budding tumescence under the cotton? 
Well, I might, at least in the sense that my bedroom looks almost as bad as the motel rooms where those flicks are shot. A chest, two wooden bedside tables, two wooden chairs. A timber-framed bed done in cherry imitation, a mattress and dirty sheets, a discordant collection of things that speak of my financial (and mental) condition. 
Yet Alex isn’t waiting for the cotton kiss (besides, he doesn’t wear any fly-enhanced leg-wear but is still clad in his hospital sweatpants). Instead, he undresses unceremoniously. T-shirt, pants, briefs, shoes, socks are all arranged into a neat pile on the second chair. 
He climbs onto the bed, folds himself into some relaxed, unassuming position, like a model in a drawing class, but without the attitude. The simplicity of his movements I will never forget, they changed my life.
I follow his example and make an unusual effort at apparel-folding. Although we had fairly rough sex the previous morning, there is not the least suggestion of anything untoward between us in the past, for all practical purposes we could be virgins. I lie next to him. 
“You’re beautiful,” he says, caressing my face. I’m caressing back. This would be the moment to say ‘I love you,’ although you never know what you get back, like ‘moi non plus,’ statistically the most honest answer (moi non plus, French, used by Serge Gainsbourg, the one and only basis for his fame, this noun phrase, meaning “me neither”), or ‘I love you too,’ but uttered unconvincingly, or ‘I love you too,’ uttered more convincingly, although you know it’s bullshit.

(I hold back.)

(I cannot hold back.)

“I love you,” I say.

“No sweat,” Alex comes back—-bypassing world literature from Homer to Spielberg. Have you ever heard anybody saying ‘no sweat’ in this situation? There’s a teasing movement of his eyelashes, although his green eyes stay neutral as if it’s head or tail. “In human sexual behavior,” he says, “foreplay is a set of emotionally and physically intimate acts between two or more people meant to create desire for sexual activity and sexual arousal.” Ooh, he’s so sweet!

(There's more educational content below, first the self-promotion:)

"Click"

(And now the educational stuff:)

 

 (And the lyrics:)

Je t'aime, je t'aime

Oh oui, je t'aime

Moi non plus

Oh, mon amour

Comme la vague irrésolue

Je vais, je vais et je viens

Entre tes reins

Je vais et je viens

Entre tes reins

Et je me retiens

Je t'aime, je t'aime

Oh oui, je t'aime

Moi non plus

Oh, mon amour

Tu es la vague, moi l'île nue

Tu vas, tu vas et tu viens

Entre mes reins

Tu vas et tu viens

Entre mes reins

Et je te rejoins

Je t'aime, je t'aime

Oh oui, je t'aime

Moi non plus

Oh, mon amour

Comme la vague irrésolue

Je vais, je vais et je viens

Entre tes reins

Je vais et je viens

Entre tes reins

Et je me retiens

Tu vas, tu vas et tu viens

Entre…

Total eclipse of Covid, or something

(This is funny:) 

And...yes...you have seen it coming: our Green Eyes are always about everything, and so they are also about Bonny Tyler's "A Total Eclipse of the Heart." Ben, the ravaging black guy, has missed the bus, and John, the narrator, is taking him home. The conversation is turning to Truman Capote (who was born in a Southern town called Monroeville):

Okay, let’s press the issue. “These directions,” I say, “they’re for Monaville, or for Monroeville?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Capote was born in Monroeville,” I say. 

“Truman Capote?”

“Yes. Your Monaville?”

“No,” he says, “I would know.”

“Monaville or Monroeville?”

“Yes,” he says.

I’m trying to flirt, that’s obvious, but is he flirting back? All these yes’s and no’s, what do they mean? Reader, do you realize—-perhaps not a big insight, but anyhow—-do you realize that in our situation a flirt means more than a fuck? Much more?

I can’t ask him whether he’s flirting, of course. “You’re like the Bible, it’s yes, yes, or no, no,” I flirt.

“Yes.”

It’s coming back to me now. And I don’t mean the Bonny Tyler song “A Total Eclipse of the Heart,” I mean the Harold Halma photograph scandal. 

Yes, that’s the way to go, much better than to ask him to carefully evaluate our homosexual encounter retrospectively and split the infinitive in the process. “You know about Truman Capote?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“You’ve heard about the Harold Halma photograph scandal?”

“No.”

“Capote was already a budding young author, after World War Two, when Harold Halma, a photographer in New York City, was commissioned to take an author picture of the prodigy, Capote recumbent on a winged settee, eyes staring into the camera, the hand resting on his abdomen. Halma’s picture caused a scandal at the time, people got very upset, even though Capote was fully dressed, mind you, since, since there was this suggestion that he--quote--was dreamily contemplating some out-rage against conventional morality--unquote.” Because, evidently, he had one hand in talking distance of his crotch. Quote, contemplating some outrage against conventional morality, unquote. Pathetic. Imagine this happening today.” 

Let’s see what Ben’s going to say. I guess he masturbates a lot. Two times per day. Three times on Sundays.

“It’s not yes,” he says, “it’s 'yea':...’But let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay: for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil.’ Matthew, five-thirty seven.” 

Are you still there? Then you will like the book. Give it a try: 

"Click"

Georgia on our mind

We went on this walk to celebrate the win of the forces of renewable energy over all things reactionary (because that's what the Trump presidency was; it wasn't conservative, but it was reactionary):

These turrbines are only a stone throw away from the Praia do Norte, which holds the Guinness Book of Records for the highest surfable  waves on the planet. 

And while we are at it: have you listened to the Trump Tape of last Saturday, in which he asks the Georgian Secretary of State to "find him the votes" to overturn the elections in his favor? How often he uses the phrase "the people of Georgia"? Well, we are outdoing him in this little fragment from our novel Green Eyes, in which the semi-fictional Georgian District Attorney Hunnsbruck appears on local TV (Channel Two) to defend his record. We're in one of the later chapters:

Maurice fiddles with his iPad, holds it up. “We’re at the top of the hour, as they say here,” he says, “let’s see, let’s pop in.” 

The newsroom of Channel Two materializes on his screen. An anchorman and an anchorwoman appear in the beaming studio and greet each other expansively against the backdrop of the police department’s parking lot. Assorted vehicles are still parked there, and Charleze (the local reporter), is still on location. “The top story today is so breathtaking, it is positively, absolutely, and definitively shocking,” the anchorwoman (“Olivia”) enthuses, “Charleze has more.” 

Charleze expansively greets anchorwoman (“Olivia”), who expansively greets back. Next to Charleze a man is standing whom we know already thanks to our interest in family blogs. Hunnsbruck is dressed this time, dressed to kill, you’d say, or at least dressed to advocate innovative punishments for police department homicides, so he’s emphasizing local roots with a light seersucker suit of modest stripes and cut. The reporter turns to the seersucker suit and introduces him as the youngest DA in the history of the galaxy: “When we arrived on the scene this morning,” Charleze says to Hunnsbruck, “having been alerted by vigilant members of the Georgia Beach community to the unsettling traffic on the lot outside the local police department, right here where we are standing, rumors were swirling that an officer has been shockingly shot dead inside and that an assistant district attorney from your office is implicated. Does the size of the CSI vehicle” (pan on the white-cubicled truck) “points to the size of the crime committed inside?”

“Splendid”—-Maurice. 

“Thank you for having me on”—-Hunnsbruck. 

“You are always welcome”—-Charleze. 

And now, in unison: “Thank you”—-both.

A moment of recovery, Charleze catching her breath. “The word is, Sir, that Lieutenant Blake Jackson of the Georgia Beach police force was shot dead last night.”

“Although I’ve never had a chance to meet him in person, I am convinced that he is, or was, a truly wonderful person. My thoughts and prayers are with his family and friends at this difficult juncture.”

“We have to interrupt briefly for this message,” Charleze informs Hunnsbruck, who gracefully cedes the floor to a risqué soda commercial with a curly-blond girl, the wind-surfer back of a hot male (only the back), and a soda bottle. When finally allowed back, Charleze and Hunnsbruck have obviously had a chance to follow the ad on their return video—-so Charleze suppresses a giggle when asking Hunnsbruck: “Sir, this is a shocking crime, is it not,” (her left hand gesturing, digits splayed, dramatic nail-paint-jobs exposed, the right hand doggedly clinging to the phallic mike) “is it not a shocking crime when a trusted member of the local police force is shot dead while in full discharge of his duties. How do you feel about this?”

“Charleze, let me tell the viewers, the people of Georgia feel terrible about this, and in particular the people of my District, and I, as the DA in charge, feel exactly as terrible about it as they do. This is a shocking crime of which the people of Georgia disapprove strongly. It is, uuhh, illegal. Life is sacrosanct from inception, especially when it comes to the police.”

“Can you assure our viewers that your office won’t let this particularly shocking crime go unpunished?”

“The people of Georgia know me and my office, and I can assure the people of Georgia that I will work tirelessly to aggressively pursue the perpetrators of this shocking crime and bring them to justice.”

“What will be the charges?”

“It’s early days, but the perpetrators will look at malice murder, felony murder, aggravated assault, aggravated battery, possession of a firearm during the commission of a crime, maybe on several counts, or more.”

“Will you seek the death penalty?”

“We seek the death penalty whenever it is appropriate.” 

“The people of Georgia will be grateful.”

“This is another step ahead in the never-ending battle against crime.”

We’re interrupted by the studio and another commercial.

“Did you listen to what he just said,” Alex says, “about the never-ending battle against crime. It’s like saying we’re battling infinity, and we will count to three, and four, and five, and go on and on until we run out of numbers.”

Not everybody gets it, Alex has to explain.

“You’re better off if you don’t have to explain your own jokes,” Maurice says.

“It wasn’t a joke, it was the very opposite,” Alex replies.

“May I cut in on that?” the newsroom comes back, “Mister Hunnsbruck, a member of your office has been connected to the shocking events unfolding at the police office. Could you comment on that?”

“The case is being investigated extensively, and I would like to thank Deputy Sheriffs Hartley Hansford, Harrison Thomas, and Jeremy Hicks from Glynn county, Lieutenant Thomas Raybon, Lieutenant Peter Hoyle, and Lieutenant Mario LaStrada from the GBI, and many unnamed others for their tireless efforts. I can assure the people of Georgia that no stone will be left unturned in this ongoing endeavor.” 

“The people of Georgia will thank you for that, Sir.”

“Thank you.” 

Are you still there? Then you will like the book. Give it a try: 

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German for beginners -- Lederhosen

Our friend Sacha (depicted as Jack Horn in our literary oeuvre) and we have been back and forth today about receiving pictures from friends concerning a country that both of us left 40 or 45 years years ago. So...along those lines, here are pictures concerning things which are still happening today in those parts:

Why do you do this, you'll ask, putting up these pictures? Well, we want to sell our books, and here's a fragment from our first novel, Green Eyes, a finalist of the Lambda Literary Awards...and which--TADAA--came out out in a German translation last month. 
The fragment involves Maurice Dymond, a recent acquaintance of our narrator John Lee, who's telling about Godehart Wagner, a fictional fifth generation member of the Richard Wagner clan:

"[Godehart] tells me his life story. He’s from this minor branch of the Wagner family, but somehow he still holds some rights to the Wagner name. Not for the music, of course, that belongs to the public domain, but in some way Wagner’s name is still protected under German law, some special provisions enacted by the Nazis, and he makes his money with Wagner mugs, and Wagner busts, and this themed stuff that you find in tourists shops. And he sells leather shorts, Bavarian leather shorts, emblazoned with the Wagner motif. You know—-these garments that they wear with Tyrolean hats when appearing on the telly where they dance to the tune of Bavarian square dances, jodlers, if you will, and slap their thighs to the rhythm of the music. You are aware of that folly if you ever watched German television. It’s of no importance when you switch to a German channel, there shall always be men in Bavarian shorts and Tyrolean hats, slapping their thighs.”
“Impossible.” [John]
“Mind you, they don’t dance to Wagner music, just a jodler.”
“But the Wagner theme, how do you combine this with leather shorts?” [John asking]
“Good question, no idea.”
“Do you know whether Wagner was gay, too?” [John]

“Actually I asked Godehart. Wagner wasn’t officially gay, but he had an affair with the young king of Bavaria, Ludwig the Second, Godehart told me. Ludwig furthered Wagner’s career, in fact, he underwrote his productions and built opera houses for him. Wagner would not have succeeded without Ludwig. So perhaps Wagner wasn’t gay, perhaps it was just the casting-couch behavior of an ambitious composer. But we can’t be so sure. Wagner and Ludwig exchanged quite a few letters, quite explicit, passionate ones, the jury is out on that one.”
“How do you know?” [John asking]
“Well, Godehart told me, I asked pointed questions.”
“Nobody asks pointed questions anymore.” [John]
“I do,” he says.

Buy the book, here: 

"Click"

German for beginners: Grüne Augen by Michael Ampersant

Finally, folks, the GREEN EYES are out in a German translation with the DeadSoftPress. Have a look:

   

Green Eyes -- the fishbowl -- This Is Heaven

The Green Eyes are coming out soon in a German translation, so lets draw the attention of our readers to this...

...a fishbowl, yes, because a fishbowl plays an important role in the sequel to the Green Eyes, This Is Heaven.

The Green Eyes tell of a "romantic" love story between two gay protagonists, John Lee and Alexander Iglesias. The sequel continues with our heroes, and because they are already together--some reviewers complained that they are not "together" enough--the story is about something else than sheer romance, and murder is always a good substitute. And so, John, as the potential suspect of a potential murder committed in the darkroom of his town's only gay club, is called to the local police station, where he's interviewed by a certain Mario LaStrada, a homicide detective.  And, yes, I have no recollection how I got this idea, but I had to animate the scene somewhat and a fishbowl came to mind. The bowl subsequently appears in various chapters since John is called to the police station at various times, but when John is called in for the last time (after that, LaStrada wont be in the position to call in anybody anymore), John is asking himself the question:


What will be the strada this time?

It will be the fishbowl. The glass container has grown in size and is studied intently by the inspector upon my arrival. We’re watching a detective flick from the ‘40’s—-educating the audience how the suspect is broken down by sheer disregard for his awkward presence. LaStrada has a point though, the toy fish of old has gotten company by three brethren, all looking more or less like goldfish, but not quite. And if my mammal bias is of any help: the fish don’t like each other.

(...) 

He [LaStrada] is turning to the fish bowl again. Previously, a single fish turned its pointless rounds at a leisurely clip, but now there are four of them, and a sense of purpose has taken hold. Were it not for the bowl’s spherical shape, one would fear for the centrifugal forces, the fish being misled by inertia and missing a turn. 

Isn't this neat? Murphy's law inverted, partially. Whatever can get right does get right, and so we hit on this gif picture  with a fish missing its turn. There's more about these fish in This Is Heaven. Perversion, sex, anything. Get yourself a copy, here.

"Grüne Augen" cover reveal

Dead soft---yes, we also had to ask---the German queer romance press---so, Dead Soft is going to publish the Green Eyes in a German translation, which is due April 28. Here's the cover. Isn't it pretty?

We'll let you know more as soon as we have the buy-links.

And here's how it starts:

Liebe Leser, das erste Kapitel dieser Geschichte beschreibt eine zufällige Begegnung dreier Männer in den Dünen hinter dem Schwulenstrand meines Ortes. Es ist in krasser Sprache geschrieben—-einer Sprache, die Sie irritieren oder sogar verletzen könnte. Ich habe mich deshalb entschieden, es durch eine knappe Zusammenfassung der dort beschriebenen Ereignisse zu ersetzen—-Ereignisse, die die herzzerreißende, mörderische, aber am Ende doch erbauliche Geschichte der Grünen Augen auslösten.
Mein Name ist John Lee. Ich bin neunundzwanzig Jahre alt und wohne in Georgia Beach im US-Staat Georgia; ich doziere Französisch am Southern Georgia College, einer kleinen Hochschule fünfzig Kilometer süd-westlich nicht weit von der Grenze zu Florida.
Ich bin ein Problemfall. Während meiner Jugend wurde bei mir Bipolarität diagnostiziert, eine manisch-depressive Störung, die wohl für meine Arroganz, Scheuheit, und vielleicht sogar für meine Homosexualität mitverantwortlich ist. Während meiner Jugend war ich noch kontaktfreudig und sexuell aktiv, aber jetzt verkrieche ich mich in meiner kleinen Wohnung am Davis Canal, wo ich—-abgesehen von onanistischen Anstrengungen—-Schach im Internet spiele (und verliere), einen Blog schreibe (den niemand liest) und Seminare vorbereite (die die Studenten hassen). 

Unsere Geschichte beginnt Anfang Juli 2012. Ich wache an einem Sonntagmorgen auf, spüre den Drang nach frischer Luft, und beschließe, einen Spaziergang am Strand zu machen. Während ich am schwulen Teil besagten Strandes vorbeischlendere, begegne ich einem ausgesprochen gutaussehenden Mann. Er ist ungefähr in meinem Alter, aber sein hervorstechendstes Merkmal sind seine faszinierenden, grünen Augen. Wir nehmen voneinander Kenntnis. Der Mann lässt durchblicken, dass er zu einem sofortigen Austausch von Körperflüssigkeiten bereit wäre. Ich folge ihm in die Dünen. Wir entkleiden uns und praktizieren Geschlechtsverkehr. Ein dritter Mann erscheint auf der Bildfläche, entkleidet sich und macht ebenfalls mit. Wir kommen schnell zum Höhepunkt. Die Grünen Augen ziehen sich wieder an und verschwinden von der Bildfläche. In einer überraschenden Wendung—-überraschend zumindest für jeden, der mit dem anonymen Verhalten beim schwulen Cruising vertraut ist—-lädt mich der dritte Mann zu einer Party im Haus eines Freundes später am Abend ein. So weit das erste Kapitel.

...in this spirit...

Green Eyes: One-liners on line

Cool, folks, cool. A friend alerted us to a link on Meme to our Green Eyes franchise. It has quotes from the two books, like: "That was quick but profound; more profound than a quickie":

There are more quotes. Here, "classical-drama quotes" (we are always about everything): 

"Classical drama depends crucially on people not having cell phones."

Give it a try.

The Lambda Literary Award finalist

"Click"

A few days ago...

...during the heat wave over the Mediterranean, Michael and Sacha (the owner of the boat):

Sacha, why Sacha? Because he's also the model of Jack Horn in the Green Eyes saga; he's to us what "Q" is (or was) to James Bond. 

Fragment, fragment...from the first part of the saga, Ch. 43, "Clutter Clutter & Clutter", and it's thankfully short:

Every soap opera has its homme à tout faire, be it James Bond ("Q"), or us ("Jack Horn"). Speaking of James Bond, if you’ve watched the earlier movies (there is a new-new Q now, bear with me), you must have realized that Q’s old lab was too small. There was no way anybody could combine a shooting range for war heads with a workshop for poisonous pens with an assembly line for Aston Martins anywhere outside Pinewood Studios. (The newest Q holds court in the British Museum where they have more space).

Same for Jack Horn. If you ever had a look at Jack's place—he lives in a rambling farm house outside Georgia Beach with a large orchard and a big barn where he works—you don't have to enter the barn, you only have to look at it from miles away—it's like Q's (old) universe, only more so. There are toy helicopters, coloring books of his three lovely daughters, the original camera of Toulouse-Lautrec, the screen wall from Startrek, entire hardware shops, books even, some of his friends write books. It's like the law firm of Clutter, Clutter & Clutter: there it is, climbing the stairs, climbing the walls and climbing into the basement where antique premium cars await repair: clutter. There’s no way you could spend a minute in this chaos and not come away with the idea that Jack is your man when it comes to harebrained schemes.

We are barely exaggerating, give it a try:

The Lambda Literary Award finalist

"Click"

From live reviews: 

"If you like Woody Allen, you will enjoy the book!" 
"I dreamt of the GREEN EYES and woke up happy." 
"Grab it an plan to read it from cover to cover immediately!" 
"A literate and wonderfully witty romp!" 
Wow! That was my first reaction to reading this book, my second reaction was plain and simple holy shit!"
"This is a perfect book for any adult reader!"

Green Eyes --- German Translation

Not sure we ever told you, but we found a publisher for the German translation of the Green Eyes. Together with the translator, Xenia Melzer, we've been quietly working on said translation during the last couple of months, and now we are getting somewhere. Two more passes through the text, two more weeks, perhaps, and we are done.

It was quite an experience, and I'll reflect on it soon in another post. Here's just a sample, the crucial paragraph in the last chapter where Alex explains why---for heavens sake, WHY---he loves John. The English original is underneath.

And the picture? We'll that's just the view from our house this morning (click on it for a larger version)

„Also, John, lass uns durchstarten. Du würdest nicht wollen, dass ich dich liebe, nur weil Alice es mir gesagt hat?“
„Nein.“
„Und du würdest nicht wollen, dass ich dich liebe, weil es dir zu sehr wehtun würde, wenn ich es nicht täte?“
„Was?“
„Würdest du jemanden lieben, nur weil er dich liebt?“
„Wahrscheinlich nicht.“
„Würdest du jemanden lieben, weil er dich von den Toten erweckt hat?“
„Amy-Lou hat dich von den Toten erweckt.“
„Sie sagte, du hättest es getan.“
„Sie hat es getan. Sie hat dich wiederbelebt.“
„Sie sagte, es war dein Kuss. Du hast mich zurück ins Leben geküsst.“
„Ich habe dich nicht ins Leben zurückgeküsst. Ich habe einen Kuss auf deine Stirn gedrückt, um mich zu verabschieden. Du warst zu dem Zeitpunkt tot.“
„Ich habe also recht.“
„Wie?“
„Du hast mich nicht zurück ins Leben geküsst, Amy-Lou hat mich nicht von den Toten erweckt. Q.E.D. Ich bin im Himmel. Alles ist Himmel. Sogar du bist der Himmel, jemand der mich nicht betrügt trotz der herausfordernden Umstände eines BDSM-Calls.“
„Ebenso wie Amy-Lou und Alice. Wenn es nach deiner Logik geht.“
„Die mich auch nicht betrogen haben.“
„Du weißt, was ich meine. Warum solltest du mich lieben?“
„Weil du, John, einzigartig unter uns Engeln bist. Du bist der einzige Engel, der meine Liebe braucht. Der sie will. Warum sollte ich dich nicht lieben? Wir sind zusammen im Himmel. Hier gehen Wünsche in Erfüllung.“
„Das habe ich nicht gewusst.“
„Jetzt weißt du es“, sagt er und rollt wieder mit dem Kopf.

And here's the English original:

“So, John, let’s reset. You wouldn’t want me to love you because Alice told me to do so?”
“No.”
“And you wouldn’t want me to love you because it would hurt you too much if I don’t?”
“Huh?”
“Let’s simplify. Would you love somebody because he loves you?”
“Possibly not.”
“Would you love somebody because he brought you back from the dead?”
“Amy-Lou brought you back from the dead.”
“She said you did.”
“She did. She performed the CPR.”
“She said it was your kiss. You kissed me back to life.”
“I didn’t kiss you back to life. I planted a kiss on your forehead to say goodbye. You were dead then.”
“So, I’m right then.”
“How?”
“You didn’t kiss me back to life, Amy-Lou didn’t bring me back from the dead. Q-E-D. I’m in heaven. Everything is heaven. Even you are heaven, not cheating on me despite the challenging circumstances of an out-call.”
“And so are Amy-Lou, and Alice. According to your logic.” 
“Who didn’t cheat on me either.” 
“You know what I mean. Why should you love me?”
“Because, John, you are unique among us angels. You are the only angel who needs my love. Who wants it. Why shouldn’t I love you back? We’re in heaven together. Wishes are fulfilled in here.” 
“I didn’t know.”

“Now you do,” he says and rolls his head again. 

Five stars again --- Green Eyes and This Is Heaven

Cool folks. Today isn't particularly good a day, but then we discovered these reviews by John_C (his handle, we presume)  both of the GREEN EYES and THIS IS HEAVEN on Inkitt. Have a look:

Amazing -- Green Eyes

I’ve have never actually told someone to leave me alone until I started reading Green Eyes: an erotic novel (sort of) by Michael Ampersant. I held it in my hands and read the first chapter when someone came up to me to ask me a question. I literally held my hand to his face and told him to stop talking, and that I was reading. He didn’t talk to me for a few days. He got over it and read the book. I tried to interrupt him and he stopped me. Karma.
Michal’s protagonist, John Lee, is narrating the story. He’s so funny that I really want to meet him. His descriptions, side notes, and remarks are so powerful. I’ve never met someone so funny, entertaining, and naive in some ways. Okay. I admit I’m naiver that he is. My point is that I love the character. If I met him I would ask, “How?”
The style of the book was new for me. I don’t particularly write in this style. Now that I have I admit I wouldn’t even know how to start. Michael’s style is unique, part description, part I’m telling you what happened, and he also shows you what’s going on. And there is a lot of things going on. He has this unique talent of introducing something traumatic in a very nonchalant way that when the shocker comes out I jump.
What I like the most of the book is that it took me to worlds where I’ve never been. I have never known men could do the things they did in this book. When I’m reading I feel what John is doing and seeing. A few times I cinched because I thought I was there. I can honestly say, I have yet to read another book like this. I’m an honored man for having read Michael’s book.

Whew. This book. I am at such a loss with this book. It was good...

We got a new (four-star) review of the GREEN EYES (by Becca, on LoveBytesReviews). Here it is:

Whew. This book. I am at such a loss with this book. It was good. The main character is bipolar, and I’m like borderline with severe depression and ADD, so I could understand the running commentary. This book is from the perspective of the main character John. My biggest problem with this book, though, is that I felt incredibly stupid because some of the vocabulary. I had to stop and go look some words up. That kind of threw me off. Maybe I need to go read the dictionary next. Shew.

John. John. John. John is a French teacher that teaches in Georgia schools. He is out for the summer. He decides to go walking along the beach in the gay section and ends up in a sexual encounter in the dunes. With a man with the most incredible green eyes ever. Then a third comes along. After the encounter, John tries to help the third man find his shorts and ends up looking for a towel to steal to lend the third man. He gets busted and is late to the third man. The third man is gone. Later he ventures to a bar to chill be for a party next door when the third man, known as Maurice, comes in and tells a story that is shocking. Maurice ends up in the hospital and now everyone is trying to figure out how to stop a psycho killer before being killed themselves. All the while, having sexual encounters at almost every turn it seems. During this the man he loves, Alex, has come up with a plan of his own, and it causes him to have amnesia. All kinds of twists and turns in this story. And hopefully it will bring a happy ending.

Reading the GREEN EYES

I’m not going to lie here. I kinda had a hard time keeping up at times. Sometimes I felt like I was reading out of my own head lol. But sometimes it was really hard for me to keep up. It’s a good book, don’t misunderstand me. I just feel like I need to be smarter or something to appreciate it the right way. I liked John. He was a complex character. They all kinda were. Each had a depth to them you didn’t quite expect. But what I loved about John, is even with all the crap going on around him, he was worried for his friends and their safety. He would pile them all up in his tiny apartment, just to make sure everyone was safe and no one was getting hurt or come after. He was trying his best to take care of them all. I felt bad at times for him, because it seemed like a never-ending circle you couldn’t step out of, but he stuck with it. Even when it came to taking out a killer. That was stupid beyond belief, that they thought they could do or even try, but they felt if they didn’t fix it somehow, it would never stop or change.

Sometimes situations call for drastic measures. There seemed to be quite a few of those in this book. But the things you do for friends and loved ones…..

The yellow parrot --- Green Eyes III --- Bright, viridescent eyes shine into the room --- teaser

What happens with your new book, people are asking. Well, we're progressing slowly, slowly, but here's at least the second part of the first chapter.

Context: John has been asked by Alice Sandeman to replenish her shrinking stock of Eleanor Beasley paintings---Eleanor Wagner-Beasley, Godehart Wagner's spouse of convenience, now deceased. If your read the first part of the saga, you may remember that Eleanor specialized in canvasses of white dots painted on white backgrounds. So that's what John's has been doing in Alex's old pad, when he's caught red-handed (or paint-smuded) by the notorious art critic Souren Souleikan. Minds meet, and there's something transactional in the air:


Under more auspicious circumstances I would feel my dick now. But I don’t. We will need some lubrication. And we need some assurances as to the transactional character of this since said lubrication could get into the way: Souleikan gets drunk, then he gets laid; then he doesn’t remember the deal (and I’m fucked).
“I need a drink,” I say. And Souren needs a drink too, except that there won’t be any tipple left in this desolate attic, what with Alex’s tipsy attitudes.
((Hold on.))
This is where the old Alex lived with the constrained, self-denying personality of his previous life; he didn’t drink then. There may be some hold-over bottle of booze he kept for his friends, or the friends he didn’t have. I get up.
 “Mind, you,” Souren says. “No Chateau Margaux. Claret should flow at the table in the company of kindred food and kindred company, but nowhere else.”
“I’ll be back,” I say, touching his shoulder. He nods.

I am back from the kitchen where I found and untouched bottle of Bourbon in the left cabinet below the counter. I hold in my left hand now, the other hand, digits spread, clinging to two low-profile tumblers. I set this all down, uncork the bottle, pour stiff drinks. We’re past the point of return, we’ll be getting laid straight away. Souren downs his shot wholesale. Another shot, and another. Gulp. Terrible, the mechanics of substances. We swim, we float, we undress, we-—we don’t go into details.

Where's Melania

Anything the GREEN EYES have to add to this? We usually do. Here, From Part II of the Green Eyes, This Is Heaven, Chapter 41, John Lee being interviewed, for the third time, by his nemesis, Inspector Mario LaStrada...(context, context:)...We're in the police department, and LaStrada has John cornered, but there's a pet fish bowl sitting on the reception desk, and John has his cell-phone activated in video-recording mode, lurking out of the breast pocket of his T-shirt:

Handcuffs appear out of nowhere. Nothing can save me now, except that the detective, his sight trained on the only Lee in the room, has overlooked the further goings-on fish-wise. And it’s not what you expect; it’s worse, the dark-blue shark undertaking a sexual assault on the pretty goldfish in the most uninhibited ways.

I once visited France, the country of my mother, where people would occasionally say: ‘Voila, un putain.’ (“Look, a hooker”). Along those lines I say, “Look, Inspector, the shark is raping the goldfish.”

And it works, Strada turns around. I could run away now, but say instead: “Bestiality in the police department, Inspector. Do something, do something.”

He’s listening. “Do something,” I repeat. “Not in this office.”

“Stop it, stop it!” he yells at the fish. He clutches the bowl with both hands, half-lifts it off the counter—-presumably intending to haul it to some location where sex between unrelated species of pesci would be a biological novelty rather than a crime—-but the big, water-filled, fish-filled container is too heavy for the Strada; it glides off the counter and drags the inspector down, smashing into pieces as it hits the ground, the long arm or the law falling onto the vicious shards of splintering glass.

Perhaps I can sell the same footage twice, I think the most heartless thought of this episode. I’m leaving the PD--head erect, pace deceivingly measured, a false expression on my face.

I stride across an almost empty parking lot. Nobody seems to be around, and the sergeant…where was the sergeant, didn’t he hear the fishbowl crashing? Strada didn’t say a word though, he fell silently onto his fish sword. He could be unconscious. There was immediate blood—-he might exsanguinate. And the fish—-they are also God’s creation, especially in the State of Georgia with its staggering number of churches per inhabitant—-the fish deserve a new life in two separate bowls where they can pursue their pointless rounds till they expire of boredom. Instead they are lingering there on the ground, hapless, gasping for air, provided they haven’t been crushed by Strada’s bulk.

You are a piece of shit, John, you are a piece of shit.

I’m back at the scene of the crime a few seconds later. Strada is splayed out on the ground, prone, moaning imperceptibly or not loud enough to alert the bowel-impeded sergeant. Nobody else is in evidence. There is more blood.

I stoop, bend over the stricken Strada, helpless myself. Where are the fish?

The sequel to the Green Eyes---available now


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If we could add something to this: Trump knows more about the American press than this press knows about itself.

A missed opportunity for free speech

(buy the book here)

A new five-star review of the GREEN EYES

"What struck me the most, as it did with the sequel, was the plethora of vocabulary, both English and foreign, that truly made the novel unique."---M.D. Prier on Amazon, April 20, 2018

(Want to read the book? Get a free copy of the Kindle edition through May 3:)

More praise for This Is Heaven

A new review of This Is Heaven, on Amazon:

5.0 out of 5 starsYou know you want to be bitten

March 16, 2018

Format: Kindle Edition

This is Heaven. Yes it is. The sequel to GREEN EYES. I'm a big fan of Ampersant. I've read a lot of his work. Let me tell you that I read this book slowly and took my time. Actually the story was so good I wanted to just keep reading. The reason. He uses action and thrills and you want to savor the sex scenes and learn from them. Especially getting bitten. Come on, admit it, you want to be bit too. What I also like about the book that it continues from the Green Eyes. It's a month later or ten years later. It's the next day, of sorts. I wasn't expecting that and I'm happy it was that way. I am happy with this book and waiting for the next one.

(We're working on it)

The sequel to the Green Eyes---available now


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"ADDICTIVE. UNIQUE. SPECIAL. Witty. Philosophical. Extraordinary." --- another review of the Green Eyes

Gay Book Reviews has a new review of the GREEN EYES, by Lena Ribka. Enjoy:


THIS BOOK IS DIFFICULT TO REVIEW/RECOMMEND…

WHY:

1. GAY EROTICA.

This book was a nominee for LAMBDA 2016 in the category Gay Erotica. It is not a genre that can compete with MM Romance. Yes, I know, the majority of MM Romance Readers want a lot of SEX scenes in their books, but not THE KIND of Sex Gay Erotica offers. Gay Erotica is not about the romance between the two. It is about libido in the first place. Sex in the genre is often dirty, unclean, rough, aggressive and reeking. Are you ready for it?

2. A VERY UNUSUAL WRITING STYLE.

For me it was a winner. But I’m aware that the style Michael Ampersant delivers/offers is not everyone’s cuppa. Do you understand THIS KIND of humor?

WHY this book is ingenious:
You treasure all LAMBDA nominees. You have just to know them.
You estimate a SPECIAL writing style. I assure you, you won’t come across SOMETHING like this BEFORE. Michael Ampersant’s style is UNIQUE.

The inimitable style: 5 stars.
The story itself:doesn’t matter.

It is one of those books where the writing and the way of telling is much more interesting than the story itself. I think that it could have at least 50 pages land some long-winded observations less. But the way the WHOLE package is made is so unusual and ridiculously delicious, the humor is so profound, that in spite of all my complaints, I need just to read more by the author.

Honestly, I wanted to DNF it more than once during reading, it was mostly WTF-“eye-rolls”. BUT. I. JUST. COULDN’T. I had to come back. AGAIN and AGAIN. I don’t know, but it is something about this book that difficult to explain, difficult to describe and difficult to separate from.

ADDICTIVE. UNIQUE. SPECIAL. Witty. Philosophical. Extraordinary.

The Lambda Literary Award finalist

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"Oil, oil...!"

And, anything the GREEN EYES have to add to this? Sure, always. Here, Part II (This Is Heaven), CH. 20, The Headless Horseman. Alex and John have left Juliette's hotel room and the scene of a Barbette Bienpensant provoked flagrante, a scene also involving Juliette's new friend, Romeo:


Alex laughs. Chuckles in an old-fashioned way. Slaps my shoulder—even though that’s difficult on account of my head-rest—we’re in the truck, heading to the hospital where Alex needs to be for unclear reasons. “You are contagious dude, yes, you are,” he says.

“What?”
“The post-coital checkup, this is so you, you could have invented it.”
“Never heard of post-coital checkup.”

He hoots. “Gotcha, gotcha.” He cocks his head (which he will do a lot for the remainder of this episode). “I shouldn’t laugh,” he adds. “I believe.”
“There wasn’t any blood,” I say.
“They’ve possibly changed the sheets in the meantime. ‘Room service, room service, we have a de-hymenation.’ Or there wasn’t anything like a virgin…like in the first StarWars movie or what. They are lost in the desert, and the robot shouts, ‘Water, water.’ And the princess shouts, ‘Room service, room service’.”
“You don’t make sense.”
“No, it was Mel Brooks. A Star Wars parody. The robot shouts ‘Oil, oil.’ Spaceballs was the title.” Alex looks at his watch. “How much time did they have? Eight hours, nine hours. They did it four times. Five times. It hurts the first time. But then—female orgasms aren’t automatic, you know. In this case, however, I’m confident—she looked so otherworldly.” He gives me this look: “This is heaven, John, I told you.”

The sequel to the Green Eyes---available now


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