V.L. Locey's Blog, page 35

Old Fans, New Fans, Should It Really Matter, Fans?

Can you smell that? That’s the aroma of ice, sticks, and skates. That’s right—





HOCKEY’S BACK!!
 I’m in seventh heaven let me tell you. Another new season is about to kick off, and with it old and new fans alike are gearing up to cheer for their favorite teams. As the fans begin to gather, this little problem seems to pop up from time to time, so I thought we could chat about it.
As a rabid Ranger backer, I belong to quite a few groups sprinkled over various social media sites. I've noticed a rather interesting ideology that springs up whenever large groups of sporting fans congregate. There seems to be this thought process among some fans that the longer a person is a supporter of a certain team, the better fan you are. I'm just not sure I can agree with this way of thinking. Yes, a person who has been cheering their team since nineteen sixty-two is a dedicated fan for sure, and is quite knowledgeable, as one would assume. But does that make them better? Does being a fan longer make that fan better than a newer fan?


New fans are the lifeblood of a team; let`s face it. If my team doesn`t draw new fans, the franchise is in some serious trouble down the road. Yet among some, the new fans are spoken down to when they should be embraced and welcomed warmly to the fold. Sure, a new fan may not know the goals against average of Joe Goalie, who played from 1953 to 1961, but does that lack of statistical knowledge mean that new fan should be made to feel lowly by the elder fan base?
And what about a person who, like me, is an old fan as well as a new fan? I grew up living about twenty minutes from downtown Philadelphia in the seventies. I spent my summers at Veterans Stadium cheering the Phillies and my winters at the Spectrum rooting on the Broad Street Bullies. Life, as it does, led me away from the suburbs of Philadelphia. I found myself married, with a daughter, and residing right next to the New York border. As I raised my daughter, I drifted from hockey.
I renewed my love of the game when I decided to write and submit a hockey romance novella for an anthology call. When I wanted to reacquaint myself with the sport, the only games I could find up here were Rangers, Islander, or Sabres games. I sat down to watch a Rangers game, and instantly fell in love with the personality and drive of the team. I may have also been smitten with the goalie and a certain Norwegian winger but that’s neither here nor there.


So, does that make me a new fan, an old fan, or just a reconstituted fan? And should it really matter? Isn`t the important thing that we all shake our foam fingers, wave our flags, chant our chants, and sport our team jerseys because we love our team, be we new or old fans?
What do you think? Does seniority make a person a better fan? Let me know what your feelings in the comments section!
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If you’re a member of Kindle Unlimited and are looking for some hot hockey romance to sink your teeth into, check out the To Love a Wildcat boxed set. Members of KU can read all six of these M/F erotic novels for free!
If you’re not a KU member, no worries. You can still purchase the set on Amazon for only $4.99! That’s less than a buck a book. So why not grab your set today and curl up with a Wildcat tonight?
 To Love a Wildcat Boxed Set

Tuesday Tales - Picture Prompt

Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales.




It's time for more from my current WIP Open Net, an M/M hockey romance This story contains crude language and gay sexual situations. If that offends now would be the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales offering.
It`s our picture prompt week and the excerpt must reflect the image and be under 300 words.  Don`t forget to visit the other talented Tuesday Tales authors. Thanks for stopping by!







“Now why don’t you go upstairs and take a nap with Sal?” Mom patted my face. “You look exhausted.”“I’m still not sure about that thing in his nose,” I heard my dad telling my mom as I left the dining room.

Chuckling with relief, I pounded up the stairs. Sal looked up from an old copy of “The Long Tomorrow” by Leigh Brackett that had been resting, with a couple other books, on a shelf over my old wooden desk.

“You sure love your post-apocalyptic stuff,” he said then tossed the well-read paperback to the bed beside him.

“I thought you were napping.” He shrugged. I closed the door behind me and walked over to the bed. “I did lay down for a bit.” He reached for me and pulled just once on my wrist. I sat down beside him on the double bed. The linens were fresh, releasing a cloud of fabric softener scent when my weight settled on it. The ancient frame creaked loudly. We both winced at the grating sound. “Did you know that if you open that vent on the floor by your dresser, you can hear everything that’s said in the dining room?”

“How do you think I knew what my folks were saying all the time when I was a kid?” I fell back to the bed, the box springs groaning as my weight settled. “Fooling around in this bed is not happening,” I pointed out. Sal settled beside me, his arm lying over my stomach, his head on my biceps. “Your parents are hysterical.” He pushed my shirt up so he could rub my abdomen. “You lay all that on them, and man, that was a shit ton of stuff to pile on them, and the biggest issue your dad has after the dust clears is my nose piercing. Do you know how amazingly funny, and cool, that makes them?”

“Yeah, I do. I should have told them way before now. I was just scared; you know?” My lashes drifted down to my cheeks. “Trust me, I know.”



Copyright 2016 ©by V.L. Locey
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Click on the link below to return to the Tuesday Tales main blog for more great reads from the Tuesday Tales authors.

Tuesday Tales
See you next week!

Changing on the Fly Cover Reveal Party News

I am so super excited to be taking part in this ah-may-zing charity anthology! 100% of proceeds will be donated to a charity that promotes inclusiveness in sports. We're throwing a little party tonight from 6-8 pm EST over on Facebook and would love to see you there! There'll be lots of hockey talk, games, prizes, and at least one picture of a hot hockey player. *wink nudge*


BLURB:

Changing on the Fly is a celebration of romance, featuring six M/M stories about hockey players falling in love on – and off – the ice. All proceeds from the anthology will be donated to a charity that supports inclusiveness in athletics. 

The anthology will be available starting in October, 2016, for a limited time only. 

It includes the following stories:


Even Strength by Cherylanne Corneille
Next Season by Avon Gale
Going Home by Heather Lire
On Broadway by V.L. Locey
The Brother and the Retired Player by Mary Smith
Take a Shot by Samantha Wayland
Changing on the Fly Cover Reveal Party

Silent Sunday

*Treat from a Neighbor*

Let's Talk About Sex, Bay-Bee

(Before we begin, there is a gay sex scene included in this post. If that offends now is the time to move to another blog. I won’t be hurt, trust me. )

 Nothing like some Salt-N-Pepa to kick off a blog post! They’d be great artists for a sexy soundtrack. Actually, one of their songs is playing in Open Net, when the Cougars visit a gay dance club on 80’s night. Love me some good bump and grind.
 Speaking of bumping and grinding (I is the queen of slick segues) let’s talk a little about sex and writing it. Now I don’t plan to go into great detail here, I’ll save that for my books *wink nudge* but instead I thought I’d chat about the struggle some authors have penning sexual encounters.
 I read a comment the other day in one of my author groups where a delightful and talented romance writer friend was saying how hard it was for her to write “the perfect sex scene” and that got me to pondering. Is there such a thing as the perfect sex scene? What makes it perfect? Is the perfect sex scene impossible to write because each reader has their own ideal of perfect sex?
 In my humble, there is no such thing as a “perfect” sex scene. When I sit down to write sexy times, I flick my Perfectionist Muse off my shoulder. I’d much rather have Raunchy Muse sitting on my shoulder for sensual matters because sex is rarely ever perfect or masterfully orchestrated. Sex is slippery, guttural, sweaty, sticky, funny, sometimes spontaneous, and always sloppy.  Or it should be if you’re doing it right.

Perhaps my take on sex scenes is different because I write erotic romance. Or maybe it’s because I mainly pen gay sex nowadays. There is a certain rough, gritty side to man-on-man sex in my books, I admit that. There’s also romance, but for the most part when my men are together for the boot bumping, flowery talk isn’t front and center. Take this scene from Full Strength as an example:




The inside of our second floor apartment was stuffy. Dan went around opening the windows. I carried our bags into our bedroom and made a stop in the bathroom to take a piss and ensure the look of abject horror from Dan's driving was gone from my face. I kicked my shoes off in the living room then padded into the kitchen to find Dan standing in front of the open fridge.
            "There's nothing in here but an empty jar of olives and some margarine," he said in what sounded to be surprise. I walked up behind him, slid my arms around his waist, and then lowered my mouth to his neck. He shivered when my teeth nibbled along his jugular.
            "Let me take your mind off the olives," I murmured against his tan flesh while my hands slid downward. My fingers dove under the band of his jeans, eager to touch his dick. Dan rocked forward. I stepped up slightly, my hands now inside his briefs and in possession of his cock and balls. One hand stroked, the other squeezed. Dan rested his head on the freezer, the fridge door hanging open and the light bathing us. My cock was rigid and ready. I gyrated against his ass. He pushed back.
            "Fuck yeah," I growled at his response. I pulled my hands out of his pants and tugged on his jeans and underwear until they slid over his hips. Then I freed my cock and grabbed the container of margarine. Dan watched me over his shoulder, his long dark hair stuck to his brow, cheeks, and neck.
            "Yeah, that is so hot," he breathlessly said as I slathered oleo over my dick. I kicked his legs apart. He reached back, forehead to freezer, and spread his ass cheeks for me. "Show me who you love, Vic."
            "Only you, Dan," I ground out as I pushed the head of my cock into his tight ass. I moaned, he hissed, cold air blew over our bared legs. Fingers coated with margarine, I slid them into his hair anyway. He urged me on, begging for more. I began moving inside him, rolling my hips in a circle. "Only you, sweets."
            "Fucking hell," he cried out when the round-and-round became the in-and-out. "Yeah, hard. Fuck me so hard you don't never think of anyone else."
            I tugged on his hair. His head snapped back. I pounded the man just as hard as I could. The fridge rocked back and forth, the olive jar on the door tipping over.




Before anyone says anything, Victor and Dan are a committed, seronegative couple in a long-term monogamous (Now legally wed) relationship, which is why no condom was used. Always play it safe guys and dolls, wrap it up!

 Now, as you can see, there’s not lots of gushy goo-goo talk going on in that scene, yet there are romantic overtures. Most of my emotional moments come after the sex, when the guys are winded and their defenses are down. That scene is all about slaking an overwhelming need. Will some readers dislike it? For sure. Would that kind of scene play well in a M/F romance? Darn Skippy. Is it perfect? In the eyes of some readers it’s pretty darn close (or I hope so) but in the eyes of some readers, definitely not.
 Which brings me back around to the notion that there is no such thing as a “perfect sex scene” because every reader is bringing their tastes and desires with them when they read your sassy, sexy times. Just like humor is subjective, so is sex. What floats one person’s boat will sink another’s craft. Maybe striving for perfection for sex scenes is futile.
 So for those authors who are tussling with writing perfect sex try allowing the characters to just have fun, get messy, and enjoy the naughty bits as much as the people in that big, rumpled, fictional bed. It’s worth a try! Maybe letting go of the reins a wee bit will make those dreaded scenes a little less stressful.



What do you look for in a sex scene? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Tell me what you think in the comments below!

Tuesday Tales - Call

Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales.
 



 Welcome back! It’s time for another snippet from my new book! I'm now working on an M/M hockey romance titled Open Net. This is the second novella in the Cayuga Cougars duology featuring LGBT players. This story centers on a young goalie, August Miles, a newcomer to the Cougars that we met in Mario and Lila's novella.
 Today’s snippet has some steamy stuff between August and Sal. If gay sexual situations or mature language offends, now would be the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales offering.  Our word prompt for the week is "Call”.
 










We sat there for a long time, my head on his shoulder, his fingers interwoven with mine, until he yawned widely. I lifted my head to look at him questioningly.
“Getting the call from Tino to ask me to work over made for one long ass day,” he said as he rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. “You think you maybe want to go to bed, papi chulo?” He slowly got to his feet, my fingers slipping out of his.
“I’m not feeling like such a pretty boy anymore,” I admitted. He stepped behind the couch then bent over it, his hands sliding down my chest, his head next to mine. I sucked in a sharp breath when his fingers flittered over my abdomen, and then again when his lips moved with sinful slowness over my temple. His hands splayed over my trembling stomach. I let my head fall back, eager to give myself to him. Having him want me, and me wanting him back, was critical to my ongoing existence at the moment.
“You’ll always be the prettiest boy in New York state in my eyes,” Sal murmured while he dropped hot little kisses down the side of my face, at the corner of my mouth, and then along my jaw. My arms rose. My hands dove into his hair. His fingers kneaded my flesh, digging into the skin and muscles of my stomach. My balls felt heavy. He whispered soft, sinful, sensual things to me in Spanish.

“Don’t stop,” I huffed, arching my back away from the sofa. Sal nibbled on my ear, beautiful words in a musical language I didn’t understand flowing over me. His weight grew as he leaned over me further. He pushed a hand down over the front of my pants, brushing against my erection. The sensation was so good I nearly cried out.




Copyright 2016 ©by V.L. Locey


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Click on the link below to return to the Tuesday Tales main blog for more great reads from the Tuesday Tales authors.
 Tuesday Tales
 See you next week!

Silent Sunday

*Fairy Door*

(Credit to my sister-in-law who has this beautiful door in her garden)

The 'Cats Are Now in KU!

That's right Kindle Unlimited fans, you can now find the To Love a Wildcat boxed set in KU! Which means if you're a member you can read all six of the Wildcat M/F erotic romance books for free. If you're not a KU member, no worries, you can still purchase the set on Amazon only for $4.99!

To Love a Wildcat Boxed Set

Tuesday Tales - Paper

Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales.
 



 Welcome back! It’s time for another snippet from my new book! I'm now working on an M/M hockey romance titled Open Net. This is the second novella in the Cayuga Cougars duology featuring LGBT players. This story centers on a young goalie, August Miles, a newcomer to the Cougars that we met in Mario and Lila's novella.
Today we have a little friendly shinny game with Mario and August. This story contains crude language and gay sexual situations. We are telling tales about hockey players so if that offends now would be the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales offering.  Our word prompt for the week is "Paper”.
 


“You about done with your goalie voodoo hoodoo ritual?”

 I glanced to the right to find McGarrity wearing a half-baked smile. “Yeah, I’m done.” I tossed my bottle on top of the net, slid my mask on, and dropped down into a crouch to stretch a little. “You planning on trying to shoot a puck at me or just standing around thinking about your AARP benefits?”

Mario threw back his head and laughed hard and long. That made me smile widely inside my mask.

“And to think you used to be this shy little kid who wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful.” He skated behind my net and out to the blue line, where a mound of pucks had been dumped. Mario picked out a puck, flung it into the air with his stick, and then swung like he was Mickey Mantle. The puck flew at me. I jumped up and caught it in my catcher’s mitt.
Another puck came in low, rolling across the ice. I managed to kick that one aside then dive to the left to slap another one away.  Then the shots began coming at me faster and faster. It was like facing a tennis ball machine, only this machine was rocketing slap shots at me while wearing a maniacal smile. Puck after puck flew at me, bouncing off my chest, shoulders, and stick.
There wasn’t time for banter or chirps. Mario kept shooting and moving, slowly getting his accuracy honed in. For an old man he was wicked hot with upper left hand shots just like the sports section in the local paper always said. What he lacked in diminishing speed he more than made up for with grit and brutal snap shots. At first tracking all those pucks was hard, but the longer we were out there, the easier it became. My instincts overrode the quagmire inside my head, and I could focus and lock-in on him.
He picked up a puck at center ice, the black tape on his stick placed there to obscure the chunk of vulcanized rubber. His skates turned sharply, suggesting he was going to head to the left. Instead he rolled around the net, making me dance from one side to the other to shove my skate tight against the pipe. He jabbed and shoved the puck at my leg, making sounds like a pit bull, while I stabbed at the puck with my stick.
“Tough little pup, ain’t you?” Mario growled as we went shoulder-to-shoulder, the puck slipping and sliding around my feet.
 “Got to be to play with the old dogs,” I grunted, sweat burning my eyes. I dove at the puck as it slithered forward and slapped my catching mitt to the ice. Mario rocked me to the side, his hip finding purchase and his stick slipping under my glove.
The Italian-Scot then fell on me, bowing my back until I was flopping around on the ice with him on top of me. He hooked my glove up off the ice. By this time, if it had been a real game, he’d have been sitting on the bench for goaltender interference, but since it was only him and me, he scrabbled and clawed for possession of that puck.
Copyright 2016 ©by V.L. Locey

*~*~*



Click on the link below to return to the Tuesday Tales main blog for more great reads from the Tuesday Tales authors.
 Tuesday Tales
See you next week!

Silent Sunday

*In Remembrance*