Go! by Tones on Tail
Hey, look, I’m blogging!
And I really shouldn’t be. It’s November, and I’m supposed to be writing another in a series of off-the-wall novels. This one is no exception. Starf*cker (the asterisk is a mandatory part of the title) is turning into a real oddity for me, so of course, I’m enjoying it. It represents a few firsts for me. It’s the first time I’ve written a book where the main character is older than me. John Irish is actually 51 years old, which makes him TWELVE YEARS OLDER THAN ME BECAUSE I’M STILL TWO MONTHS FROM TURNING FORTY! It’s also the first time I’ve written a book that has so much, um, explicit sexual action. I mean, I’ve written some sex scenes before, including one that takes place on a racquetball court in Troubleshooters that I’ve been told is incredibly hot. But it’s different for this book, because sex is intertwined into almost every aspect, beginning with the main character’s thirty-plus-year career as a male porn star and going right on to the plot of an alien race of women who need John’s sperm cells to reignite their dying civilization.
Yeah, it’s like that.
So I haven’t blogged for a couple of months. In that time I’ve released a couple of new ebooks, which I’m sure you’ve already heard about by now because I don’t often shut up about them. I’ve also had a price epiphany. Now some of my short stories are free, and at the moment, so is Hope and Undead Elvis as well. I experimented with free pricing during October and moved several thousand copies of Clockwork Chloe and Blood on the Ice each, so I’m optimistic that continuing to offer freebies will if nothing else, get people reading some of my work and with some luck, spend money on the things which aren’t free. And review my work. Show that it’s in demand. If you happen to be one of the folks who has downloaded some of my work, either free or you paid for it, I’d be grateful if you’d take a few minutes to post reviews of it on Amazon, Goodreads, and Barnes & Noble.
Finally, here’s an excerpt from the opening part of Starf*cker. Probably not safe for work or kids, but who am I to tell you how to do your job or to be a parent? Enjoy!
Chapter One
John’s father once told him, “In this world, as long as you have a big dick, you don’t need a Mercedes Benz.”
Of course, as one of the premiere blue movie stars of the 1950s and ’60s, his father’s perspective on what made one successful was probably skewed just a bit. Nevertheless, as John raced through puberty, it became readily apparent that he’d not only inherited his father’s large unit, but the skill to use it both effectively and dramatically as well. There was one career option for which he was ideally suited, so on his eighteenth birthday (to avoid legal complications), John’s father brought him to a nondescript hotel room in the seedier part of Los Angeles along with a director, lighting-sound-camera technician (a well-rounded guy named Steve who’d fallen out of favor with his various local unions), and two nubile waitress-by-days who were eager to show off their new surgically-enhanced assets.
It was the first time John had ever had sex on camera, and it had been a weird experience with all those people—including his father!—standing around watching him, coaching him, and telling him exactly what to do and when to do it. There were discussions of angles. Camera angles. Penetration angles. Even the angle of his first ejaculation, which happened far too quickly for the director’s liking. But what did he expect? John was only eighteen. Sure, he’d been having sex with girls in his high school since he’d been fifteen, but it’s different with all the stopping and starting and repositioning common to pornographic movies. It was much less like having sex, which John enjoyed very much, and much more like work.
He remembered how at one point he’d had to straddle Steve as the cameraman lay with his back on the floor, pointing the camera up at John’s crotch to catch the best angle as John hammered the actress from behind. That was when he’d lost control and accidentally come. Years of practice came into play and John pulled out prior to his climax by reflex, and he spurted the voluminous ejaculate of a teenage boy all over the actress’ ass, legs, and Steve’s face.
“God, I’m so sorry, man,” he said afterward.
Steve had been a good sport about it as he wiped off his equipment. “It’s cool. You wouldn’t believe how many times that’s happened. You get used to it after awhile.”
The director said that they could use that shot, as long as they got a shot of John’s orgasm face that they could edit in afterward. So John had to sit on the edge of the bed while Steve focused in tight on his face and try to look like he was having an intense orgasm. “Come on, son,” his dad had said. “Breathe harder. Groan a little.”
Then John had watched while his dad drilled the other actress, and in spite of the utterly bizarre situation, he’d known then that he would be a real porn star, like his father.
That had been back in the late ’70s, when the home video market made the porn industry explode all over itself like a Dutch watersports movie. With his exceptional cock and ability to shoot voluminous amounts of come all over the faces, breasts, backs, stomachs, and hands of actresses, John Irish quickly rose to superstardom, where he partied with John Holmes, Ron Jeremy, and Peter North, and fucked legendary actresses like Seka, Christy Canyon, and Ginger Lynn. It was a good time to be a porn star, before the AIDS scare and the emphasis on safe sex throughout the industry. Where else could one get paid to have orgasms over and over? John had done well in that period. He lived fast, fucked hard, and a lot of his finances went up his nose.
But all good things will come to an end, in time, and as people will tend to do, John got older.
In the ’80s, he’d been a superstar. A quarter of a century later, he’d found it harder to find work as there was less demand for a male actor who was getting a little paunchy and a lot gray. When he worked, which wasn’t often, it was in the “dirty old man” role in porn, where he’d be the one spying on the sculpted young actors and actresses performing their deeds. Sure, there were a couple of specialty production companies that catered to what insiders called the granny market, but even those studios tended to prefer younger actors fucking older women.
John’s income stream had dried up. He’d gone from living in an expensive Los Angeles loft, fueled by a haze of alcohol and cocaine, to a cheap apartment in a low-rent part of town. He’d tried coloring his hair but that made his employment prospects even worse, because then he couldn’t even pull off the distinguished older gentleman look. Modern porn actors were massively-muscled and tanned behemoths who ate steroid crunchies for breakfast and got bovine growth hormones injected at lunch. The industry was moving on, and John had somehow gotten left behind along the side of the road.
Ron Jeremy wouldn’t even return his phone calls.
January 24, 2012
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Posted by ian
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JUST CAUSE is now out for sale, and I’m doing my darndest to get everyone on the Internet to buy at least one copy. Lofty goal? Maybe, but then, so is getting a book published. Here’s the thing: New Babel Books has signed me for the first four books of the Just Cause Universe series, and I have more finished and even more planned. If you want to get to read them all, we need to get the word out across the world. Send out the signal. Shout it from the mountaintops and broadcast it on a carrier wave to stretch beyond the Matrix into the world of the Real.
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