Fox McHardy leads a charmed life. Puget Sound penthouse, gorgeous boyfriend, jet-setting job—everything he’s ever wanted, he’s gotten, including the heck out of the small Iowa town he grew up in. But once things start to unravel, they do so with alarming speed, and he finds himself riding shotgun in a rented convertible with his new worst enemy faster than you can say “I want my old life back.”
OMG, somebody’s giving away jocks, and I have a whole week to win one?! If ever you were going to enter an online contest, this sounds like a good one to me. The jocks being given away are literary, natch — you don’t get a real life baseball player like this guy to come to your house and help you paint your fence or clean your kitchen (or drink a bottle of wine and admire your “etchings…”), but during M/M review site Joyfully Jay’s Jock Week Giveaway, there are 64 sports- and athlete-themed books from which to choose as prizes, and, as you might expect, a story of mine appears in one of them.
Regular readers of Mister S. will remember that last year, everyone’s favorite hunky dipshit Beau and his charming and sexy shooting coach Marcel were among the couples that took the gay sporting world by storm in EM Lynley‘s Olympic-themed anthology Going for Gold. If you missed my story “Hot Shots” but still occasionally ask yourself, How sexy can competitive shooting really be?, then get thee to Joyfully Jay and enter for your chance to find out. A cool feature of this particular contest: she has a blurb and a cover photo for each of the 64 prizes on her site, and you get to list the books you want, should your lucky comment be drawn.
2012, we hardly knew ye. Actually, 2012 was kind of a loudmouth year, and one that many people will be happy to leave behind, but before we send it packing, there are a couple of loose ends to tie up around here.
I don’t do New Years “Resolutions.” Partly because I feel like the word “resolution” is used by our culture in this context as a synonym for “setting yourself up for failure,” after which point you will presumably be called upon to punish yourself for not getting skinny enough or not running enough marathons or for drinking too much coffee. My skinny days are behind me, there’s no such thing as “too much coffee,” and one marathon — New York City, 1993 — was plenty, thank you. I’m not a big fan of self-flagellation (odd for someone brought up in the Catholic tradition, I know), but I’m a firm believer both in setting intentions and in positive reinforcement, and when I meet goals, there’s always a minute of Yay, Me!, and often champagne. (And maybe a big dinner out, which is why “Get Skinny” is no longer on my list of Things To Do.) Continue reading