Bisexual Jeff…Rules For Comment On My Stories!
Judging by the tens of thousands of times all my stories have been read, most of you have enjoyed them. Some haven’t and that is fine too, I’m not trying to please everyone, or really anyone, I’m writing what buzzes around in my head at times.
Enjoy them, don’t enjoy them…totally up to you. But do NOT leave shitty comments about someone you know who died of AIDS, please, THIS is not the site for that.
Everyone reads the stories, the titles pretty much tell you what the story is, so if you click it and then read the whole damn thing, hey, you clicked on it! It interested you enough from the title to click it so, I kinda rest my case on that point.
Instead of ranting in a negative way, if you have a better idea for a (similar or compatible story) worthy of me writing it, let me know.
I would actually like to hear from other writers. I am a published author but I enjoy the anonymity of XNXX where I can write shorter, less involved, and more sick and twisted stories than anything I write for known public viewing.
So once again, please do not leave negative comments, just vote negative and be on your merry way. Constructive criticism (look it up first or you may be sorry!) is acceptable, but your slanted negative opinion is NOT constructive, keep that in mind!
This isn’t a forum, go to forums to rant. Any comments not directly about the story and I deem insulting will be removed or I’ll just turn comments off all together. I had hoped this would be the “accepting” community it’s supposed to be, what with all the other stories on here that are 100 times worse/graphic/sick than anything I’m writing about (which btw, all are FICTION, regardless of the tags…so if you are one of those who is all worked up (in a bad, negative way) and want to rant about my stories, um, hate to burst your hater bubble, but you can’t hate what isn’t real!!! Wow!! How’s that for a cliff hanger!!!
Until next time…
Here is a sample of my "normal" writing, however you want to categorize THAT! This is an excerpt from a yet unpublished, in the works novel I'm writing. If anyone ever comes up to me at an autograph signing and whispers to me to sign the book for "XNXX" that'll be our little signal and YOU get a free autographed copy of the book this excerpt is from!
********************this is one of my first original edits, the story is slightly different but I can't put the EXACT story on here and then publish it later, so a few minor changes were made*****************
Jack would often walk up and down the beach, mostly keeping to himself but sometimes he would engage in conversation with passersby or the lifeguard sitting perched on their stand. He got a kick out of watching them train in the springtime for lifeguard duties. Each year prospective lifeguards had to try out for the team, much like in any organized sport. Each year there was the same old familiar faces trying out but occasionally a new face emerged in the group trying to win a somewhat coveted spot on the team.
He didn’t do a lot of talking but Jack did a whole bunch of listening. Sometimes he’d overhear family conversations, two lovers lying on a blanket throwing compliments back and forth between kisses.
When the sunset and the crowds dispersed and headed home or to hotels or wherever they laid their heads at night, Jack would go for a walk, then go home and write. He had been a moderately successful writer and columnist-turned editor and had started and stopped writing the perfect novel a number of times. He needed the solace and silence of the night to really dig in and find his rhythm in writing.
He tackled short stories and short books with relative ease but it was the elusive full-length novel that seemed to elude him like a thief being pursued by the authorities. He wondered, was he the thief, or the authorities? Sometimes he felt like both, his writing seemed like he was running, but was he running towards something or away from it? Other times he felt very much in pursuit, chasing his writing in maddening dashes, trying to get down every thought in his mind before it escaped him.
-------------------------(next excerpt is not in line with above, so it may not flow as well--------------
The smells at the beach were grand to say the least. The freshness of the ocean air and the whiff of suntan lotion permeated the air every day. Sometimes, when the wind was right, you could catch the faint smell of a charcoal grill from one of the beachfront houses. It was a symphony of aromas, coming and going, changing with the blowing breeze.
Each day was the same for Jack. The daytime hours spent on the beach or strolling alone down the boardwalk passing by the various stores and hotels that were packed along the main boulevard. When walking along here, it was a totally different sensation, especially the smells. The wonderful smell of steaks cooking or seafood being prepared or the smell of fresh fried dough all being offered up for sale on the mile long boardwalk were some of the more pleasant aromas around. On the weekends, when more and more people packed the beach and local bars and restaurants, the smell took on a less pleasant, more pungent smell of thrown out food, beer lingering in beer bottles and the general dirtiness of the streets after thousands upon thousands of people had come to have their fill.
On weekends the ballroom had live music and dancing as well as an occasional well-known performer would come to town and put on a show. The outdoor bandstand had live music, mostly oldies catering to the geriatric crowd that sought out entertainment nightly during the summertime.
All of these things blasted Jack’s senses day in and day out. For the most part he enjoyed them, but they definitely had an air of being seasonal, of lasting only a short time, thus seeming overpowering at times. As if the smells themselves were trying to get in as much as they could before the summer warmth waned.
Each night, after strolling down the boardwalk Jack would return to his small cottage and write. Each night he would begin by sitting and staring at his laptop, a blank look upon his face, unsure of what to write. He’d just take a deep breath and write down that all-important first sentence of the day. Once he got that down, next came the paragraph and then the chapter. He knew he could write it, and he knew he would, it was just the little twinge of angst that every writer faced when they sat down to write.
Jack would often write until three or four in the morning. The quietness of the night lent itself to productivity for him and he enjoyed it; being up when most others were asleep. He didn’t sleep all day either, like some thought of him. He was most often up by eight o’clock, even when he went to sleep at four in the morning. Sleep wasn’t something that came very easily for him anyway so he figured why fuss around with it if it wasn’t going to happen. He would sleep when he was tired, sometimes he’d nap a bit during the hot, lazy part of the day.
When he was on the beach and stretched out, he seldom slept, even when he appeared to be doing so. He was listening, to the sounds of the ocean, the people and even the seagulls that soared overhead, looking for food from tourists who either willingly fed them crusts of bread or those tourists who were careless enough to leave their food unattended for more than a moment or two.
When Jack would witness a tourist get the occasional “dumping” on by a seagull, he would muse to himself how lucky he was after all these years of sitting on the beach how he hadn’t ever once been shitted on by a seagull. He seemed to have an understanding with them, he’d leave them alone, and they’d leave him alone; except he really didn’t leave them alone, not really. Once a week or so in the evening when the sun was setting he’d come down to the beach after most of the tourists had left for the day and he’d put out some left over bread or birdseed for them. It was a curious action as Jack wasn’t particularly fond of the birds. Some of them were very pretty, their white bodies with gray or black wingtips silhouetted against the blue sky. Others were rather poor looking, gray spotted and somewhat nasty looking. He supposed those were the dregs of the gull community.
So it went on, day after day, week after week until the summer season was over. Jack would go to the beach, sit in his chair and watch and listen to the crowds. He’d walk the boardwalk and take in the different sights and sounds it offered in the evenings, after the sun went down.
Sometimes he’d stop in to one of the local watering holes for a quick bite if he was hungry or more often than not, a drink or two. He’d watch whatever happened to be on the television at the time; most often it would be a sporting event of one kind or another. He’d spark up light conversation with those within earshot of him and sometimes would come across someone of the sweeter persuasion that fancied him and a bit of flirting would take place.
He was fond of the pretty girls but didn’t relish the idea of being in a relationship with them. It seemed too time consuming and draining. Most of the fellows he knew in relationships or who were married seemed to be a bit lifeless, even if they were happy. There’s always something you had to give up or give in to it seemed and Jack wasn’t having any of that. Besides, he had been there before and it didn’t suit him, just as sometimes the girls didn’t suit him, but he didn’t mind, he’d enjoyed what he enjoyed and hadn’t any regrets. He was just glad he didn’t have any children to worry about or who may worry about him.
Jack would make his way home about eleven o’clock or so at night and sit on his porch and relax for a while before he would start to write. That gave him a bit of time to regain his composure if he had a bit to drink and wouldn’t adversely affect his writing. Not that he felt it could be any better or worse from the booze, but you never knew.
When the summer ended this year Jack thought he had just about finished writing his story and by the time the leaves turned from green to hues of gold, red and combinations in between, he was ready to send his manuscript off to his agent. It was long overdue he knew, he had been dodging calls and messages from his agent for three months now, but perfection took time he often mentioned.
Jack downloaded his manuscript onto a zip drive and tossed it into a mailing pouch and took it down to the local post office to send to his agent. You would have thought by his actions he was merely sending off a bill or letter or something mundane, not a manuscript that had taken him so long to write.
As he read the paper he couldn’t help overhear some of the conversation around him. A heavy-set lady sitting on a blanket closest to him was talking with another woman. The two of them sat and picked through a bag of chips and sipped from bottles of water as they talked on. In between them lay a book, a novel, written by a not-so-famous writer with a somewhat famous name.
Jack slowly peered over the top of his paper, which gently rustled in the breeze. His gaze ran down to the book on the blanket as the two women continued to talk.
“It’s such a good book Rita, you have to read it when I’m done,” said the woman on the left. “I swear it’s like he’s writing about our lives or something.”
Jack smiled and sat back in his chair, lifting his paper up and looked over the rest of the literary section’s best sellers list. He read down from number one, hoping to find his book in the top ten, but it wasn’t; his heart sank for a moment. He continued down the list and there in black and white it was, at number eleven, “Life On The Beach”. He managed a coy smile and closed the paper. He opened it back up, looked at his novel’s place at number eleven and smiled again. He stretched out and pulled his hat down over his face and rested in the sun. The warmth of the sand covered his feet as he ran them deep into the sand....
Aw, and it was SO close to the end! Now you won't know what happens, and lots is left out and I'm still writing. So see, I write other than sick shit, so I hope you enjoy both of them....