M/M Romance

I’m not even sure how I ended up reading m/m romance. In case you are wondering, m/m is what is known in manga as B.L –boy’s love- or simply gay romance. All I know is that I was looking for the novel behind two yaoi anime series and came across a Z. A. Maxfield novel called “Drawn Together”.  It had both aspects I was looking for: Manga and Yaoi. Even the cover art reflected that. It gravitated around an avid manga fan who uprooted himself, sold his possessions and pulled his saving to finance a trip to an anime convention where his favorite manga author Yamane was supposed to show up, convinced that Yamane is his soul mate. Only Yamane with his diminutive stature and soft features is not the woman of Rory’s dreams but a haunted and hunted man tired of being mistaken for a woman. At that time I found myself drawn to the sweet sentiments between the two men. The smoothness of their coming together even during times of hardship made me think “Yes, that’s exactly how it’s meant to be.” The wit was quite different from what I was used to especially that i hadn't had any experience in m/m romance novels before. The repertoire and comic scenes were fresh and unpredictable, perfect for a relaxing read, especially when you are resting from a particularly stressful read.  From there I started reading a novel of this flavor in between novels of the same series. I next moved on to another Maxfield novel, this one called “Rhapsody for Piano and Ghost”. This was another beautiful novel where the characters came together with the aid of another form of art, this time music.  The characters were marvelous and the eternal connection between the dancing ghosts was what pushed me to read it all in one sitting. I guess the fact that both books were of the same author and had the same type of cover art was perhaps good incentive to pick up this second one but in truth, reading  the synopsis only closed the deal and made me want to figure out what the deal is between the dancing ghosts and the piano prodigy. From there I moved on to the St. Nacho’s series which was just as packed with passion for art and a connection with people. I have to admit though that I did not read this series in order neither have I read “Physical Therapy” but I am dying to read ”The Book of Daniel”.  And on and on it went. I fumbled my way through this genre and decided on what I liked and what I didn’t. I decided that I liked romances that revolved around sweet guys who discover their attraction to each other through a common ground like music or art or a video game or book. I learned that I didn’t mind the sexual content but hated the books that were excessive because they felt like written porn when I didn’t like watching porn. I also noticed a lot of books that gravitated towards crude language and derogatory actions. That I certainly did not like.

 A week ago I discovered Zathyn Priest. Zathyn Priest is not your average garden variety m/m author. For one, he is a man. From my limited experience, most authors who write in this genre are women with pseudo-names and do not point out to their gender before the end of the book where the author’s note or description resides. Priest’s writings are not only engaging but also challenging attempts to test the boundaries on the contemporary and the socially acceptable. He does that not only via the sexuality of the characters of his books but also by the stories he tells. Unlike so many authors who have turned the m/m domain in writing profession into a strictly erotica domain, Priest thrives on developing the plots and characters of his stories. Until I saw is profile on Goodreads I couldn’t have known if he were of the female or male gender through his writing even after reading four of his books. Even by looking at the profile picture he had, he would totally look androgynous to the hapless looker. I had to scour his profile for any sign of his gender and finally found a single ‘he’ a single 'him' and the word 'guy' in the description. I was secretly overjoyed. Maybe there is hope for this genre if it is not solely written by women portraying how they wished men were like but by a man who actually wrote about sensitive loving men. I guess I was feeling particularly stalker-ish at 3am in the morning especially after I had read “The Slayer’s Apprentice”. On a last note, I am not saying that erotic content is a bad thing per se, me being an avid yaoi fan. I am saying that most man/man romance books tend to forget about developing decent plots and deeper characters opting to choose redundant or shallow personal conflict and cover the holes with excessive sexual content.

My Old Saved Chats

I was going through my old documents to clean up my laptop (I call him lappy and he calls me snooz or master or admin). I do that a lot I have a sort of OCD for keeping my laptop data organized. Anyway, I found records of old chats I had saved at one time in my life for all different reasons. Some because I liked what we were talking about, some because I was learning something new and some because they documented moments when I gained a new love or friend. It is shocking how much those good memories could bring joy or pain depending on when you are reading them. It’s funny how even if the words say are all the right things, they just hurt because they are saved proof of lies spoken or promises broken.

In a specific chat, I remember telling a friend how much I wished we were like computers. That all we have to do is scan our hearts and then press ‘heal’ and everything would be mended back and everything will be perfectly good again. I told him how when my friend said that all I need is a new view on love to change how I think about it I told him that it’s not like architecture; it’s not like I have the top view of the structure and all I need is the side view so I can see in in the proper light like a painting. But I do wish it is only i don’t think it is that simple. I tell him how damaged my heart is and how much I can’t experiment with it anymore, and he tells me that in life we are in a continuous state of experimentation, from the new ball pen i picked up earlier to the bakery down the road from my place. I tell him I don’t mind experimenting with life; it’s my heart I mind experimenting with. I guess i didn’t mind loving those pastries I picked up that day. But that is the thing with pastries. I loved them; I ate them, end of story. You can’t go around doing that to people, yet some people love you then destroy you end of story (I won’t say eat you that would just be inviting trouble).

That was a long time ago about two years ago I think, back then I was hurting. Before that I was un-comfortably numb and itching to feel again. I didn’t know what kind of blessing I was in but now I do. Now I’m just comfortably numb. I appreciate beauty and goodness from afar. You may say that I live on the margin of life instead of diving in this sea of conflicting interests and maliciousness intents of the heart. I say I’m only that way when it comes to matters of the heart. It might be a cowardly thing to do, but just this once I am willing to be a coward. I’m one of the bravest people you may ever meet when it comes to a million other things but if there is one thing I learned, it’s that a heart is physically a very small thing but stopping it emotionally is like stopping it physically, it cripples everything around it. The person shrivels and dies in all ways imaginable. If you want to murder someone without taking his heart, trick him into giving you his heart, play with it then throw it back at him. You don’t have to throw it away; the fingerprints you leave behind are enough to cripple him for a very long time after that.

Hearts freely given away tend to accumulate fingerprints of the people who handle them. You might have given you heart to someone new but the prints of his predecessors are still there and he may just be another pair of prints. Whoever is reading this; if I were you I’d make sure whoever is handling my heart has his gloves on. As for me, mittens are not my thing; boxing gloves are because I wouldn’t give my heart away again without putting up a good fight. 

The Bound Rage

Blinded by light, bound by the dark

Starving for the dusk, oh so stark

How fortunate for me, i know no fear

How fortunate for you, that i am here

Trapped in ice, chapped are her lips

a crows circles her throne, swoops and dips

Her eyes wide open, color of coal and fire

black by day and by night, sapphire

Heinous hellhounds guard at her tomb

Cerberus, curled up like in a womb

turn your heads and bite your throats

Worship at their feet like sacrificial goats

Longing for release even for just a while

Stinging silently for what they defile

the world around her feeds on her ache

nipping like dogs waiting in turn to partake

A sacrifice of blood and soul

But not willing, not at all

Her release will be for vengeance not cure

And by that time i am sure

That everything will be set ablaze

Acheron

“Anytime, agriato."

Jaden inclined his head respectfully to him as Ash spoke in Jaden's native tongue and called him brother. It wasn't a language the demon broker heard often. He gave Ash a slight imperial bow before he vanished.

THE THINGS I HATED

Okay peeps, news to Sherilyn Kenyon, arigato does not mean “brother” and if the demon lived in our time as it clearly states in this second part of the book entitled “ACHERON Present Day”, then I’m certain he would meet plenty of people who speak Japanese.

Like almost everything that interests me, the resentment that sparked in me was born of a book I was reading - Acheron- and surprisingly a really good one even though it surprised me and broke my heart many a times. I was pretty satisfied with the material until I saw this and it rattled my chains. As an avid manga and anime fan I can’t stop myself from being so pissed I’d be spitting nails and lightning bolts the moment I read that. People! No matter how good the novel is, if you don’t know that language, never be too afraid to Google the expression you want to use or ask a friendly Jap. It’s really frustrating when you are reading this really good stuff and suddenly come across something so blatantly wrong you wanna bonk someone on the head. Add to that a couple of clichés like “The one thing I learned from Astrid is that life isn't about finding shelter in a storm. It's about learning to dance in the rain” and you’ve got real frustration.

GENERAL TAKE

In all truth, this book is so very deliciously frustrating and heartfelt that you are torn between putting the book down to stop from hurting and waiting and hoping that in the next four hundred pages the gods are gonna cut the poor fella a damn break. I mean the boy was born to the ultimate god couple – Apollymi the destroyer and Archon the creator- one of which did not want him. He was conspired against by two pantheons even before his birth and then hidden in the human world and disguised as a prince only to be sold as a prostitute by his father and uncle. All that goes on until his mother breaks out of her prison. She then sets on to annihilate her own husband and pantheon, drown Atlantis and then destroy half of grease to avenge her son who wants nothing but her love and to be left alone. And how could she not, she is the goddess of destruction “Apollymi the Great Destroyer.” My last thoughts about Acheron; damn that guy is a pushover to first trust a chick like Artemis and then abuse him even after he regains his much greater powers. It just makes me grind my teeth to think about how even after he gained power he let himself be used as a pawn. 

Personally, as a ruthless schemer, I rate his IQ or a base of ten to be a three.

Games We Made Up When We Were Young

Like almost everything I hub about, this topic was brought up after reading a book. To be honest, it was three books of the same series by Simone Elkeles. I finally got around to reading the Perfect Chemistry trilogy after reading Leaving Paradise and Return to Paradise. Both paradise books were so good that I didn’t want to read anything for a while after I finished the second book. That was also part of the reason it took me a year to try read the three books. Of course I read a book a day until the three of the Fuentes boys’ stories were known to me. I have to admit though that they weren’t as intense as the first series I mentioned. 

Going back to the topic at hand, I came across what the Fuentes boys called the Fuentes Olympics. Part of these memorable activities is nabbing their mom’s panty hose, cutting off the legs at the top and stuffing a tennis ball into the leg. The ball-filled sock is then twirled around and let fly in open space. The winner party is the one responsible for the farthest toss. This game is called the “Panty Discus Game”.

This brought back some memories of mine - specifically two- one of which involved baby milk scoops and the other involved lots of mud and kinder eggs.

Growing up, my sisters and I had a crazily wild imagination. We would go around constructing arenas made of Legos, building blocks, artificial trees, animals, mini doll furniture and sometimes even clay dough and vegetables. Those arenas would be our mini golf courses. Marbles doubled as golf balls and the scoops doubled as golf clubs. At the moment, my brother was a new infant and mom had a continually growing supply of baby formula that came with deep scoops. Those were the tools of our trade at the time. My two sisters and I spent more time designing the golf course areas, obstacles and ramps than playing the course.

 

The other game we improvised when we were kids was a bit messier to say the least when we moved to the suburbs where we had our own garden. By that time, my older sister –six years older than I was- was no more in the picture and was too old for the ideas I had in mind but my six years younger brother was always game for anything nasty, mushy or messy. The idea was to mix mud with water and fill kinder surprise yellow egg shells with the mixture and wait for it to try and tip it off leaving a mound of mud. Sadly, in winter we would forget the mud eggs outside causing the balls to melt and make the terrace ledges muddy. In short, we had a very pissed mother who sent us back out to clean the mud off after the rain stopped.

After that I came up with the “Puke Game”. This involved making a mud concoction look as much as diarrhea or poop as possible. We would add seeds and grass to the mixture and place it on a big tree leaf to dry up a bit before we remove the leaf and leave it as a pleasant surprise for the unsuspecting.

The Hunger Games

A week ago I finished this three-book series that puts so many other books I have enjoyed to shame. I am not one to pick up YA(young adult) books off the shelves I pass by in cyber space and the covers of the books were so understated that I passed them three times a day for a whole month before downloading the first book. I am not sure if these books were properly labeled by Goodreads because labeling this series as a YA read would be a total understatement and would simply be selling it short. From my short experience with YA books, I see that books that fit the bill describe the protagonist’s journey as a coming of age; shallow or not-very-shallow experiences with responsibility, peer pressure, boys and sex in increasing order. Needless to say I wasn’t very impressed and our relationship was a fleeting thing. Katniss and her friends in this book regardless their age are literally young adults. And by that I don’t mean it to describe coming of age I mean young people who have been forced by life’s circumstances to act like adults. The setting is in a greatly unjust world where thirteen sectors strive and starve and a Capitol –more like a capital to that world- where rich people engorge themselves with delicacies they take from the other sectors. It’s already been seventy four years since the revolution in the poor districts and the children are still paying for their ancestors’ dream of freedom and equality. Every year, the president in the capitol reminds them that he still controls not only their livelihood but their lives as well when from each district a boy and a girl are chosen via lottery to battle against each other in a constructed arena to the death.   There will be only one victor who will receive riches he can only dream of and his district will be rewarded as well with extra rations of food that year.

Katniss is the “man of the family” after her father died in a mining accident when she was twelve. She does illegal poaching in the capitol’s woods and trading in the black market so her depressed mother and young sister do not starve to death. On the year he sister’s name goes in the lottery for the first time her sister is picked and she decides to go in her stead. The boy picked that year is the baker’s son who saved her and her family from starvation the year her father dies. Only one of them will be allowed to come back, this is the boy she will have to kill to get back to her family. Things don’t turn out the way they are expected to in the two remaining books that follow.

If there is something I know about myself, it is that I am not quick on the waterworks, but so many times I found myself tearing up and towards the last chapter and epilogue I found myself flat out bawling. It’s a deep story that grips your heart making it expand at times and squeezes it making your soul contract at other times. This series knows how to end, it might not be what you wished for, but unlike other books that leave an open ending for writers who don’t know when to stop expanding on the characters and plots the series end at three.

This is an excerpt of the epilogue of the last book of the series

My children, who don't know they play on a graveyard.

Peeta says it will be okay. We have each other. And the book. We can make them understand in a way that will make them braver. But one day I'll have to explain about my nightmares. Why they came. Why they won't ever really go away.

I'll tell them how I survive it. I'll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I'm afraid it could be taken away. That's when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I've seen someone do. It's like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years.

But there are much worse games to play.