Prism Book Alliance would like to thank BJ Sheppard for taking the time to talk with us today. . There is also a Giveaway, so don’t miss that.
Title: The RAINBOW CONNECTION: Volume I
Author: BJ Sheppard
Publisher: Self Published
The following guest post was written by BJ Sheppard in character as Liam Adams, the lovable MC in The Rainbow Connection
Cleanliness is Next to Godliness and WTF is ‘Biss’?:
Liam Adams, at your service, and back for a second round of ‘things that take the sexy out of sex’. I basically defy you to find this next one anywhere near a romance novel. It’s gross and taboo and makes me shudder to think about it (even though I participate in this act as often as the need arises). This topic is ‘douching’. As men we are inherently set back from sexual abandon by the fact that our love tunnels also double as our shit-evacuation-ports, and thus it stands to reason that a little pre-coitus prep may be necessary. But this one act has all but been forsaken in sexy literature of the genre for one reason and one reason only; who the fuck would want to read about a guy power-washing the last 24 hours of meals out of his poop shoot? Not me. Nu-uh! No freakin’ way!
Now, as with any sexual practice, there are pros and cons to be considered, but despite these, most of the frequent acceptors of pleasure to the rear dirt track swear by this and always give their giblets a spritz prior to the sexual act – again, myself included. On the pro side, it eliminates the threat of shitting on the other dude’s dick. There is no way to sugar coat that; that is what douching accomplishes. No longer do you have to look down and worry as the burly top, ravaging your rear-view mirror, pulls out from the missionary position to chuck you into a doggy-style plowing, under threat of having his mighty meat-sword turned into a fudgsicle by the contents of your deepest treasure. A little time spent wash-rinse-repeating in your rectum and bam; so clean you could eat food out of there (although I highly advise against that). If your proclivities include enjoying toy-play or fisting, there is no avoiding this at all. For the most part, your rectum is self cleaning up to an hour and a half after dumping out; but who ever knew a guy who would stay in the realms of that five inch space when they could grind their fuck-organ so far inside you it feels like it’s coming out of your mouth? Not me. No Siree.
And the cons? Well, medically, you just aren’t meant to, for starters. Your guts have a fucking army of bacteria in there, so when you start messing with that, you can cause damage just by altering the temperature or washing away the good bacteria that keeps you all regular. Upset that and you’ll be stuck to a toilet for days while it fixes itself, and the down and dirty screw you so desired will have passed you by. Dick or diarrhea? You decide. Secondly, when you inflame the gut, it makes it more susceptible to STI’s so again, hello, mood-killer. Finally, there’s ‘biss’. What is biss? I hear you ask. Well, it’s butt-piss. Over-zealous douchers can sometimes leave the remnants of that clear-out lingering around in there so when you pull out, it is followed by murky brown discharge of your attempted hygiene ritual. Sexy, right? Not even.
So what do you do? Ah, take your pick. Doesn’t matter either way. Most guys will fuck anything with a pulse and a desirable hole to ram into. But as you can see from this tawdry little examination, douching is neither sexy, nor worth mentioning in any literature that deals exclusively in romance. Let it go. Just let it go. Let that scene be a fade-to-black. I don’t want to read about men washing the remnants of last night’s Taco Bell complete with undigested corn down the crapper prior to a romp meant to rock your world. I just want them to fuck and then cuddle, preferably under a blanket of stars whilst one is still wearing the remains of their army/navy/fireman/policeman uniform. Good shit, right? Oops…phrasing.
So as I sit at my desk researching the merits of a really good anal irrigation, I’m left a little grossed out by the prospect of this whole topic. It’s one best left behind locked bathroom doors, the equipment stored in the cupboard beneath the sink and the memory forgotten as soon as the act is complete. But being this grossed out does give credence to one thing… the term ‘douche bag’ is a really powerful insult. Next time you use it, put it in context and enjoy.
So, that is the second part of this collection of short essays examining what truly happens behind the scenes. Rarely mentioned in genre books, the above topic is one that should be avoided at all costs. But the list goes on, and whilst not quite so graphic, there are still things to be thankful have not met the pages of the m/m romance novel.
If I were to take a meat cleaver to the brain and infuse my cerebrospinal fluid with strychnine, then attach my eyes to car batteries and gargle with gravel, still it would not be enough to emulate how bad I was feeling that morning. Turns out a gallon of ice cream and the trifecta of mismatched wines in the three for $10 bargain at 7-11 was not the greatest of ideas. In fact, I would claim it to be somewhere near the bottom of the list, as every jerky movement of the elevator threatened to set me to vomiting again, after only having stopped briefly an hour before. With my work shirt fastened like a noose and my Bono-esque indoor shade wearing antics, I zombie walked from the sliding doors and down the corridor, passing Lourdes’s office for fear the pitch of her voice would have my head explode like a rotten grape.
Safely tucked inside my office, I bolted the door (by lying down in front of it) and groaned loudly, like by groaning I could exorcise the demon of my classily acquired wine hangover and liberate myself from the tyranny of my own sorry state of being.
In amidst the multitude of phallus related e-mails from Marie, I clicked on one from Lourdes, bile rising in my throat at the thought of having to expend a single second more writing about the topic that had essentially ended my social life. As the window blared to life, all the tension left my body, sinking from every nerve, tendon and extraneous piece of sinew as I read the in depth analysis of my previous days effort.
Not what we discussed. But it does read better than a who’s-who of dick dives.
P.S Don’t fuck around with the brief again or I’ll castrate you. You might be my favorite employee and wine companion, but if I have to read another of your therapy sessions in this magazine, I’m likely to take us both down in a murder-suicide that will rock the ages.
Even through my impending aneurism, I still managed to laugh.
In the twilight of my most painful working day ever, with little to do but swallow ineffective painkillers and gradually rehydrate to the point of drowning, I began to look back over what had happened with Manny. If I ignored the fumble with that muscle bound shower rapist, then everything was fixable. Surely he would understand if he just heard me out, right? Or not, I guess. At that point I was singing in the clowns, knowing that boys like me don’t get our happy ever afters’, when Lourdes sauntered into my office, for some unbeknownst reason wearing a kimono, and dragging behind her the man of my dreams/the biggest fuck up of my adult life. Manny seemed to be struggling in the tiny woman’s grasp, something that made me reassess the sheer terror that resided in the booze-addled editor (*note to self: tread carefully with that one). When she had dumped the much larger man down in front of me, she smiled as if she were Santa Claus, and she was bringing the best present ever in the form of a pissed of mailman.
“Liam, you smell like the floor of a college bar,” she hissed, as I sniffed at my underarm, the hints of au de sauvignon tickling my nose hair and threatening to recommence the onslaught of my vomitty ways. Though he wasn’t looking at me, it was impossible to miss the slight smile as it escaped his mouth, try as he might to contain it. “If you’re going to become a lush, well you know I’ll be there every step of the way, but try to salvage some kind of dignity before you drag us all down.” I frowned at the woman, wishing looks could kill as she turned her attention to Manny. “And as for you Mr. Collins,” she chided, completely oblivious of the fact that his surname was Jacobs; “if you want to stay in my impeccable graces, then you will sit down and listen to what the boy has to say.”
Both of us feeling like we had just been put on probation seemed to satisfy the old dragon, as she nodded her head once, closing the door behind her as she swept away in a storm of well-meaning arrogance and Channel No.5. Manny sat down in the seat across from my own as I shyly sunk down into the leather of the chair, hoping upon hope, that now would be the moment the earth would open up and swallow me whole. I gave it a second, then two, and when it seemed like the earth’s appetite was not for skinny white boys, Manny opened his mouth.
Living a care-free party life-style, junior journalist and gay lifestyle reporter, Liam Adams thought he had it all; the money, the job, the endless supply of men in his bed. But when his work causes him to question the very foundation of the life he has built for himself, Liam finds certain areas are glaringly lacking. All it takes is one assignment to unravel the very fabric of his promiscuous antics, compounded by the arrival of a long-forgotten tryst. With the rusty screech of the mailroom guy’s trolley wheels, Liam lands head-first in the arms of something bigger; something more.
As the romance burgeons between Liam and the Mail-Manny of his dreams, each article he writes proves to uncover something new and never realized about himself, namely that all the one-night-stands in the world could never give him what he truly wants; love. In a slapstick commentary through the eyes of the world’s most hypersensitive journalist, watch as Liam’s story unfolds in the most ridiculous of fashions, leading him straight into the arms of love, via The Rainbow Connection.
About the Author:
It’s always difficult to write about yourself, especially when, like me, you have no idea what you’re doing most of the time. I have always loved to write, from a very early age with some rather extravagant dinosaur fairytales to more recently when I found my writers voice and finally put it to good use. It has been a dream of mine for a long time to write a book, and since finding a genre I am comfortable in, the ideas have been pouring out of me. I hope it never stops.
In my spare time I like to hang out with my friends, write and record music and read all the books I can lay my hands on. I currently live in the south of England, but from here on out, who knows what will happen. Each day is its own.
These books are hopefully the first of many, and while there are readers enjoying my work, then there will always be new things for me to say. If you want to know any more, please feel free to contact me at any of the links below. Thank you for reading.
My name is BJ Sheppard and all at once I found myself an author. Such a strange sensation to actually feel you deserve the thing you had aspired to for many years. After all, all it took was computer access and an inner world that reads like a Sheryl Crow song to pound the keys and translate my crazy ideas onto the page. I feel like I could have business cards printed. Maybe wear a black roll neck and perch my glasses on the tip of my nose. I could drink whisky and smoke a cigar and do all those really stereotypical things I imagine all writers do. Perhaps I could get laid a little more? This is not the end. Nor the beginning. Hell, it isn’t even about me. My boys write themselves; I really don’t have that much say in the matter. As long as my characters need a voice, I have two chubby typing fingers and a need to please— watch this space: there is more to come.
7/29/14 Rhys Ford
7/30/14Prism Book Alliance
7/31/14Love Bytes Reviews
7/31/14 Hearts on Fire Reviews
8/1/14Boy Meets Boy Reviews
8/2/14MMGood Book Reviews
BJ Sheppard has kindly offered a eCopy of RAINBOW CONNECTION for 1 lucky commenter
Contest will end 7 days from original posting date (or as stated on the Rafflecopter) at 8pm CDT. Must be 18 or older to enter, void where prohibited.
I have a number of paperbacks, most of which are signed, to giveaway. Over the between now (11 Mar 2017) and 31 Mar 2017, every comment on the blog (this post and all other new posts), will be entered to win 1 of these paperbacks. There are also some misc swag items, so there will be a few packs of these to give away as well.
Thank you so much for your support over the last 4 years. Prism will be closing its doors on 1 April 2017. All content will remain available, but no new content will appear after 31 Mar 2017. As such all request forms have been turned off. Again Thank you,
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