Thursday, April 26, 2012


Just a quick update to let you know my new short novella, Purly Gates, is now available at Amazon!

Click on image to purchase.

I'm excited. It's been a slow road to finishing a story, any story. So this is a milestone of sorts. It did set a fire under me, though, because I truly did enjoy writing those last words, closing the pages to a work in progress. Methinks I need to do it again. It could be a nice habit!

I'm also scared. Here's another baby, thrown out of the nest and into the world. He's no longer mine, he's on his own.

Ah, well. It was a wonderful experience, regardless. You know I always liken writing books to childbirth, and so it is. The huge joy, excitement...pain...fear of the unknown...the giving birth and then the letting go and being helpless to defend them when others don't like them. And being happy when some do like them.

But, like childbirth, I'd do it again and again.

You're on your own, Purly old boy. Good luck.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

COMING SOON...Purly Gates...

Cover Art by Emmy Ellis

When my first novella, Candy G (under C. Zampa pen name) was released, I sincerely thought I'd have a boat load of stories to follow it. It was not to be. Instead---partly due to life and its obstacles and partly due to the simple fact I am a hopelessly slow writer---I have just now written the words The End in a story for the second time. Nevertheless, I'm ecstatic. I feel as high on having completed this one short novella as I would be having a hundred stories under my belt. 

My first story under the Vastine Bondurant pen name turned out to be a m/m historical. When I envisioned the title, I envisioned a male/female couple but these guys took over the story they are. 

Since this is a shorter work, I'm taking the opportunity to self-publish it (with help of a professional editor and formatter), and it will be released soon.

So today, let me introduce you to my newest characters, Purly and Lucky in Pearly Gates
Here's a peek at the boys.


Eventually soul mates meet, for they have the same hiding place.   ----  Robert Brault

A lonely stretch of beach becomes a hiding place for two men who are determined not to be ships just passing in the night.

Purlman “Purly” Gates—dark, brooding, mysterious, hiding from his past and the hefty price on his head—is hopelessly attracted to the young man who strolls the beach every morning. At the risk of his own exposure and its deadly consequences, Purly succumbs to his desire and sets out to lure the beautiful enigma into his lair.

Lucky Cleary wants the swarthy stranger who watches him from the shadows of the cottage deck. His morning promenades finally pay off when the man steps out onto the beach and into Lucky’s life in a move to bring their paths together.

But Lucky has a secret as well—a past mistake following close behind him, promising certain death if it catches up with him. And when he discovers Purly’s identity, not only does Lucky want the man more than ever but he sees the loner as a shelter, an escape to safety.

Is the meeting of these two souls a beautiful destiny or merely a cruel twist of fate in which their desire is nothing more than the kiss of death for them both?


It had been one week. Seven days to be exact. Lucky had not returned for his morning walks. 

Daily Purly gazed along the shore, halfway hoping to see the man with the honey-colored curls. It was wrong to wish it, he knew that. But he hadn’t anticipated the ache at seeing that Lucky’s path in the sand, the only sign the beautiful enigma ever even existed, had faded with the tide. 

It was for the best. Yes, as surprisingly painful as it had been to watch Lucky leave that day with his shoulders slumped—to see him cast a sad smile at his dogs then follow them onto the beach and out of Purly’s life—there was no way Purly could deny it had to be. 

It was for the best, but…

Damn! How the hell had Lucky managed to possess him—lock, stock and barrel—in the span of one week? A pinhead of time in the big scheme of things. A complete stranger at that! And only thirty minutes of that week, if even that much, had been spent face to face.
Loneliness. Of course. That was all it had been. An eternity without having touched another, slept with them, tasted their lips. Longing pent up inside him, miserable and swelling, torturing him for release.

Yes. The shy man with the eyes of crystal green had just happened to cross Purly’s ravenous path and stood right before the jaws of this hungry beast. It could have been anyone, any man, and the effect would have been the same.

It sounded logical, but…

Purly placed a recording on the spindle, wound the crank on the phonograph and rested the needle carefully where the Moonlight Sonata was to begin.

The music—rich and beautifully gloomy—filled the area and shards of moonlight pierced through the dilapidated blinds to paint silvery stripes on the floor and walls. The perfect setting for a man determined to brood.

Plucking his ever-present cigarette from the ashtray, Purly headed for the deck and stepped out into the balmy night air. The ocean’s roar, rolling then subsiding, blended with the melancholy sonata. 

Beyond the shore a wide ribbon of moonlight split the endless black horizon. To the west, lightning illuminated a cluster of clouds and seconds later the rumble of thunder echoed in the sky.  

 And then he spotted them. There on the beach, silhouetted against that wide smattering of sparkles on the waves, stood three figures—Lucky and his two dogs. 

Before Purly could pull the lever of reasoning and caution, waves of warm, exquisite, excruciating heat rushed through his body. And, abandoning the damn internal warning sirens altogether, he tossed his cigarette, bolted down the rickety steps and out onto the cool sand toward Lucky.

What he’d say when he reached Lucky’s side, he didn’t know nor did he care. He only knew he did have to reach his side.

Standing within several feet of him, Purly said nothing, just gazed at Lucky’s back—at the wind dusting through his curls and rippling the loose-fitting white shirt and trousers about his limbs. 

The dogs galloped from the tide to pounce on Purly as though running into a long-lost friend and, thrusting their wet paws on his chest, sent him sprawling onto the sand. Only then did he realize he’d stepped outside in his thin undershirt and shorts.

Lucky turned to face the commotion. With his hands deep in his trousers pockets, he studied the scene through those dark lashes and rested a serene smile on Purly. He shrugged, tilted his head and sighed. “Purly.”

Struggling to his feet in spite of the eager dogs, Purly searched Lucky’s face, registering every smooth inch of it, before looking into his eyes.

A lie formed in Purly’s mind, an excuse for being out on the beach at this time of night in his undershorts. But Lucky’s gaze, although so languid and cool, somehow managed to shoot fire straight to Purly’s soul, melting the budding falsity.

Instead of the bogus story he’d planned, the truth issued from his lips. “I’m sorry, Lucky, about the other day.”

Lucky bent to ruffle the white fur at each dog’s neck. Since their meeting, all the boyish nervousness seemed to have vanished from his eyes, his bearing. 

He said nothing, just continued to lavish his attention on the canines.

The silence prompted Purly to step nearer, determined—hoping to God the chance hadn’t passed forever—to draw some sort of response from the man. “I’ve missed seeing you in the mornings.” 

Still no reaction from Lucky.

Stubbornness in his resolve now, Purly boldly closed the space between them and stooped to rest his hand on Lucky’s. To demand his attention. The touch of the man’s skin sent heat rushing from Purly’s fingertips straight through his body. “I’ve missed you.”

The sentiment spewing from him was so foreign to his ears—the unfamiliar concept of missing, longing out loud—he might as well have been speaking in tongues.

Finally Lucky straightened, gently withdrew his hand from beneath Purly’s and brushed the sand from his own palms. His voice, wafting on the ocean’s breeze, seemed to have drawn the thought from Purly’s very mind, “Do you want me?”

And Purly knew he’d utter the tiny word—the lone syllable possessing the power to shatter the huge boulder on his shoulders with the force of a hundred earthquakes. The answer that would plunge him into a dark, horrifying unknown and yet set him beautifully free.


Saturday, April 7, 2012

...A man lying over me, always over me...

'Night Geometry' by Jack Vettriano

“I do not want to be the leader. I refuse to be the leader. I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness. I want a man lying over me, always over me. His will, his pleasure, his desire, his life, his work, his sexuality the touchstone, the command, my pivot. I don’t mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, God, as a woman I want to be dominated. I don’t mind being told to stand on my own feet, not to cling, be all that I am capable of doing, but I am going to be pursued, fucked, possessed by the will of a male at his time, his bidding.” --- Anais Nin

I discovered something interesting---and surprising, maybe even a little disturbing---about myself when I read this quote by Anais Nin.

The words aroused me. Turned me on. Sent the old proverbial shivers up this dame's spine. Catapulted me straight into a dark, delicious fantasy in which a man---virile, take-charge, fearless---made love to me, took control in bed and played me like a horny violin. In this otherworldly scenario, I lent myself completely and with total abandon to his will. What he wanted, I did. And did so without question, a purring little pussycat under the touch of a strong, masterful stroke.

Damn. I've always been the mistress of my own fate, the hard-working independent woman who---as a single parent---raised a daughter to adulthood. I worked hard, brought home my own bacon.

I'm nobody's pushover, in bed or out. In fact, my credo---when it comes to men---is from the lips of Frances Marion, the powerful Hollywood screenwriter whose career spanned from the 1920's through the 80's, I spent my life searching for a man to look up to without lying down. I never depended on a man to make me feel complete, to climb my way up the professional ladder. 


What happened to me when I read the Anais Nin quote? Why did I suddenly morph into the tigress in heat who craved to be overpowered sexually by the ferocious, testosterone-dripping lion? Why do I---or any woman for that matter---yearn (in my case, without even KNOWING it) to yield sexually to a man's control? To abandon my own power to him, to long that sort of domination? 

Did I suddenly go dom/submissive? 

No. It's not quite that. In my newborn realization, there is no yes, master, no master, no 'safe' words, no bondage, no whips. No leather. 

It's just man, woman. Sex. Love making. Hands touching, lips kissing. It's---for me---letting go the reins of control once I step through the bedroom door to someone and letting them lead the way. Letting them be the strong one. 

Am I compromising my pride by being the weaker one in the sexual duo? I don't think so. I'm strong every day, I clear my own path out there daily in the corporate jungle. I'm tough. I am, as I said, independent. I'm not afraid. 

Is it wrong for a strong woman to crave the domination of a man? For that matter, is it a weakness for any sexual partnership---men with other man, women with women, men with women---to want, to allow the scales to be tipped in favor of a stronger mate taking the lead? 

Even Anais Nin, who wrote the earlier thought and admitted she needed and demanded the male to the leader, said, I hate men who are afraid of women's strength. 

Aha! And I agree. I don't respect a man who lords it over a woman because he IS afraid of her strength and who is driven by his insecurity of her independence.

But I have to admit that, in intimacy, I do so very much delight in the old-fashioned strong-to-lesser-strength ratio. As I said long ago---call the feminist police on me, throw me in the hopeless girly slammer. I just can't---no matter how hard I try or no matter how I fight that independent woman inside me---help but find enormous titillation and shivery pleasure in the thought of a man taking charge of me in the bed. 

Even Nin, who falls just south of seeming too submissive, said something else that sort of put wonderful, affirming bookends to her one-extreme-to-the-other ideal: I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.

And there, so damn beautifully, you have it. The courage to treat me like a woman. 

So you're damn straight he's strong in bed. He's a man and he knows I'm a woman and he's strong enough in his own self to not intimidated by my strength. Because, in reality, he is NOT stronger than me, he is equally as strong. For THAT man? Hell, yes, I'll be a flower bending to a powerful wind.