Prism Book Alliance® would like to thank MJ Ferguson for stopping by today.
Title: Bad Day
Author: MJ Ferguson
Publisher: Self Published
Genre: Contemporary, Erotica, Gay
After experiencing one of the worst days of his life, Greg stops at the first bar he sees to have a few drinks before heading home. There he meets the enigmatic Angel. Unable to resist the pull he feels for the mysterious stranger, Greg soon finds himself falling under Angel’s spell. But will Angel be his saving grace or is he the devil in disguise?
Inspiration for the stories I write comes from varied sources. I can be inspired by a movie, a favorite song, a random comment someone makes, or when an idea pops into my head. From there I work out the story and where I want it to go. I don’t like starting a story until I have a title, a beginning, and an ending. I usually let the middle work itself out as the story guides me along, although I’ll have in mind things I want to happen along the way.
Once I have those things worked out, I move on to the part that is most difficult for me, naming my characters. I still haven’t figured out why the process of naming my characters is so hard for me. I know part of the reason is since I write mm stories sometimes it’s hard coming up with names that don’t belong to the men in my family. It may sound strange, but using my father’s name or one of my brothers’ names makes it difficult for me to focus on the story. All I can see is their faces. Since I write mm erotica and erotic horror it’s tantamount to imaging them when I’m writing certain scenes. Those are images I don’t need or want in my head. I come from a big family so more names are off the table than one would think.
Because of this I write stories-the shorter ones-without giving my characters names. Another reason I don’t name characters when I can get away with it is I believe it draws the reader in more and makes it more personal for them. When you don’t have a name or even a clear description of a character, I feel it engages the reader more and lets them use their imagination allowing a reader to become more invested in the characters.
The other day I was at Sweet Confections, a place my friends and I go to write, and one of the employees told me he got my book Eight Twisted Tales to Keep You Up at Night and how much he enjoyed it. I was so happy to hear this, but even more he told me how the stories he enjoyed the most were the ones where the characters have no names. I asked him why and he told me the very reason I like to write without names. It made the stories more personal for him and engaged him more than the other ones. I was so excited because that is exactly the response I wanted to evoke in a reader.
My other goal when writing is to write something so engaging the reader feel as if they are watching the action take place as opposed to just reading it. One of my favorite reviews written about my book Depravity Book One Punishment outlines this perfectly. The reviewer states: The writing is smooth and the images almost too clear. It felt as though I was watching the scenes play out, as opposed to reading them.
When I read this I did a fist pump and yelled “Yes!” so happy I achieved what I set out to do. I would love it if everyone was able to read something and see it so clearly in their mind. When I read a book, I become so invested in it the words come across to me the same way. I can literally see what I’m reading. There have been countless times over the years when I’ve been talking to someone and I say to them, “Let me tell you about the movie (or TV show) I’ve seen…” only to realize partway through the telling I’m actually talking about a book I’ve read.
I took another sip of my scotch contemplating what to do next. I could easily take up one of the not so subtle offers I’d received since coming here. Mindless anonymous sex would no doubt get my mind off of things for a while and the thought of it, of losing myself in some nameless man and forgetting everything for a while held great appeal. It’s what I did when I lost the control I needed to keep my little world running smoothly. But I had curbed that part of my psyche that said it was a good idea. Not only would it not solve anything, I knew from firsthand experience that while it felt good while it was happening, when it was over I would feel even worse than I did now. Besides as hot as the some of the men were in this place, none of them truly appealed to me. For what I wanted – needed – only a certain type of man would do. And so far I had noticed no one fitting the bill.
Deciding this was a bad idea; I slugged back the rest of my scotch and winced at the burn as it slid down my throat. I pulled a few bills out of my wallet, slapped them down on the bar and started to get off the bar stool so I could leave. I patted my pocket to confirm my phone was there. I’ll call a cab from outside, I thought. The cool air would probably do me some good.
“You’re not leaving yet are you?” A deep, rough voice said from next to me.
I turned toward the voice to say I don’t know what – because the second I turned and our eyes met, I lost not only my breath but the ability to speak as I stared in to the fathomless pools that were his eyes. The lighting wasn’t the greatest-it was a bar after all-so I couldn’t be one hundred percent sure, but his eyes were so dark they appeared obsidian. I wanted to see what the rest of him looked like, but I couldn’t look away from his eyes. It was like his captured mine and wasn’t letting go. My eyes widened in response to the look in his. There was so much heat and lust in those eyes they shined with a feral light. I gulped at that look as my heart raced and my dick twitched.
He broke eye contact to look me up and down. From the top of my sandy colored hair to the bottom of my boots, he missed nothing. Everywhere his eyes landed on me felt like a touch. His eyes swept up again and met mine, then traveled back down looking at my crotch which was quickly filling. He licked full, sensuous lips as he stared at my cock which was now hard as a spike and pressing insistently against my zipper.
While he continued to stare, I looked him up and down as well. He had hair so dark it appeared black in the low lighting and a strong jaw with an enticingly heavy five o’clock shadow. It was so thick he either hadn’t shaved in a day or so or he had to shave twice a day. Broad shoulders led down to a flat, ripped stomach and narrow waist. Slim hips, strong legs, and a bulge so big it caused my ass to clench in anticipation.
I suddenly realized while we had been staring at each other, I hadn’t answered his question. But for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what it was. All I could focus on was the gorgeous specimen of manhood standing in front of me. He was pushing all of my buttons. Built with perfect proportions, add in the scrumptious looking chest hair peeking out from the V of his tight T-shirt and I was in heaven. I could see that his nipples were hard beneath his shirt, the outline of a nipple ring visible and felt mine peak in response. My eyes tracked downward stopping at his packed crotch. As I watched, his cock lengthened even more beneath his jeans. I could tell they were favorites by how worn they were. They were almost white in some areas.
“I said, ‘You’re not leaving yet’ are you?” That deep voice washed over me yet again and my eyes flew up to his, my face heating as I realized just how long my attention was focused on his dick. But in all honesty if you were looking at what I was looking at believe me you wouldn’t blame me in the least. It was all I could do not to drop to my knees and worship at his bountiful altar. I raised my eyes back up to his gorgeous face and saw the smirk on those thick lips.
“Like what you see?” He stepped closer, invading my personal space. I could feel the heat emanating from his body. I could smell his delicious scent. Hot, musky, all man with a hint of sandalwood. My mouth watered. I was in so much trouble. Standing before me was the embodiment of every fantasy, wet dream, and wish I ever had. I felt my knees go weak. It was a good thing I was still sitting on the bar stool or I surely would have slid to the floor in a puddle at his feet. How was a mere mortal such as me supposed to carry on a coherent conversation with a god such as him? My brain was trying to catch up with my cock, but it was a little difficult since all of my blood as well as my good sense had fled my brain and now resided in my cock. Again it took every bit of will power I possessed not to slide off the stool, drop to my knees, unfasten his fly, and suck what I was sure was an impressive dick down my throat.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
About the Author
West Virginia native Miachelle J. Ferguson writes as M.J. Ferguson. M.J. developed a love of reading in the first grade and her voracious appetite for great stories and amazing characters has grown. M.J. discovered her love for writing in the sixth grade and honed her short story and poetry skills through college. M.J. writes about complicated people and relationships, intriguing stories and psychological thrillers. She still lives in West Virginia surrounded by beautiful mountains and rivers, family and friends. M.J. is a member of a local writing group The Wicked Wordsmiths of the West.
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,
|This post may contain affiliate links.
|Prism Book Alliance® assumes no liability for the ownership of photos or content used in guest posts and interviews. The post author assumes all responsibility and liability for this content.|