Hi guys, we have Gene Gant popping in today with his upcoming release Bender, we have a great guest post and a tantalizing excerpt so enjoy the post! <3 ~Pixie~

Bender

Gene Gant

At nineteen, college freshman Mace Danner works as an escort, hiring himself out to customers who want a submissive they can dominate. Having no carnal urges himself, the sexual side of his job leaves him cold, but he sees the pain inflicted on him by his clients as punishment for causing his brother’s death when he was in high school.  Pain is not enough, however, to wash away his guilt, and Mace starts binge drinking in an effort to escape his remorse.

The dorm’s resident advisor, Dex Hammel, sees Mace spiraling out of control and strives to help him. Despite the mutual attraction between them, Mace is disturbed that he still feels no sexual desire for anyone. Even with Dex’s support, Mace’s self-destructive behavior escalates, leading to a situation that endangers his life.

A New Adult title appropriate for ages 16+

Excerpt

The stories I write begin in different ways. Sometimes a situation comes to mind—say, an out-and-proud gay boy who has anger issues because his parents are in the middle of a divorce—and I proceed to create characters to live out that situation. Other times it starts when a character introduces himself or herself to me. That’s what happened with Bender.

Sitting at my computer early one morning in front of a newly created and glaringly blank Word document, I waited for inspiration to hit. After a few moments of that, I randomly started typing, and when I stopped, I had the following:

I open my eyes in darkness. A muffled vibration pulses against the left side of my face. My phone, buzzing like an angry insect.

Just a few sentences, of course, but in them I felt a very solid character. The character didn’t have a name at that point, but I already knew many things about him even though those things hadn’t yet made their way into the document. He was nineteen, he lived in a college dorm, he was very lonely, and he was drowning in a terrible guilt. I wanted to know more about him. It’s always easiest to let the character speak for himself, and I therefore typed some more.

I’m on call during the late-night weekend hours. At once, I stick my hand under the pillow and retrieve my vibrating phone. My eyelids feel as if they have glue under them. I blink several times and clear my throat. It’s important that I sound alert and ready.

“Hi. This is Mace.”

It’s a man’s voice on the other end, deep and authoritative. He isn’t shy and doesn’t waste words. He lays out the parameters of what I have to do in a few sentences. I lay out my requirements. After that, it’s just a matter of the when and the where. The when is an hour from now, which doesn’t leave me a lot of time.

In the bathroom, I clean myself inside and out. I blow-dry my short, thick hair, running my fingers through it to fluff out the strands. My hair was blond until I left home a year ago. Since then, it’s darkened to this murky brown color. Maybe that’s my body’s attempt at camouflage. When I’m done with the blow dryer, I shave, brush my teeth, and gargle with an antiseptic mouthwash. At the mirror, I inspect my body front and back, making sure I haven’t overlooked anything. I slip into black cotton boxers and a black T- shirt. Then I dress in black jeans, black boots, a black jersey and quickly shrug into my thick leather jacket. I grab my wallet, my keys, and the items I’ll need for the job, and I’m out the door.

By the time I finished the first chapter, I knew the character’s name, that he lived in Chicago, loved jazz, supported himself by working as an escort, and handled his job with the same careful attention he devoted to his college studies. I also knew he was confused about his sexuality, had cut himself off from his family, was in far more danger than he realized, and that he escorted more out of a debilitating self-hatred than a desire to earn money or have fun. I still didn’t know why he felt so guilty or why he was so isolated. But I wanted to find out, and I was certainly hooked on the character.

Not every story gets finished. There are currently eleven novels/novellas languishing in Word documents on my computer that have not been completed. The reasons for this vary, but in many instances it is because the main character lost my interest. I put these stories aside and revisit them after a few months. Often, on rereading, a secondary character stands out, and it becomes clear to me the problem was that I had focused on the wrong character. Shifting the focus reenergizes the story and allows me to complete it.

A focus on the wrong character was definitely not the case with Bender. This is very definitely Mace Danner’s story. Despite being quite passive through much of it, he controlled the narrative and blazed his way to the end. I hope he will be as interesting to readers as he was to me.

Excerpt

I OPEN my eyes in darkness. A muffled vibration pulses against the left side of my face. My phone, buzzing like an angry insect.

I lift my head and look at the digital clock on the nightstand. It’s 2:39. In the a.m.

I’m on call during the late-night weekend hours. At once I stick my hand under the pillow and retrieve my vibrating phone. My eyelids feel as if they have glue under them. I blink several times and clear my throat. It’s important that I sound alert and ready.

“Hi. This is Mace.”

It’s a man’s voice on the other end, deep and authoritative. He isn’t shy and doesn’t waste words. He lays out the parameters of what I have to do in a few sentences. I lay out my requirements. After that, it’s just a matter of the when and the where. The when is an hour from now, which doesn’t leave me a lot of time.

In the bathroom I clean myself inside and out. I blow-dry my short, thick hair, running my fingers through it to fluff out the strands. My hair was blond until I left home a year ago. Since then it’s darkened to this murky brown color. Maybe that’s my body’s attempt at camouflage. When I’m done with the blow-dryer, I shave, brush my teeth, and gargle with an antiseptic mouthwash. At the mirror I inspect my body front and back, making sure I haven’t overlooked anything. I slip into black cotton boxers and a black T-shirt. Then I dress in black jeans, black boots, a black jersey, and quickly shrug into my thick leather jacket. I grab my wallet, my keys, and the items I’ll need for the job, and I’m out the door.

I move quietly down the hall, down the stairs. There’s always someone awake in the dorm, studying, watching TV, sexing it up, but there are also plenty of guys here who are sleeping. I don’t want to disturb anybody, regardless. Once I’m behind the wheel of my car, I plug the address the man gave me into my GPS unit just for the hell of it. I have a good idea where I’m going but use GPS to be sure.

I drive carefully, following the directions. It’s January in Chicago. Several inches of snow cover the ground, and thick gray clouds blanket the night sky. Flurries whip through the air, shimmering in the yellow haze of the streetlights. My stomach tightens and flutters, tightens and flutters. I always get nervous on the way to a job. I put on some music. Coltrane. Other guys my age are into rock and hip-hop. I don’t think it’s pretentious of me, but I suppose it is a little weird that I’m so heavily into avant-garde jazz, with its free-flowing, take-no-prisoners rhythms. What the hell. It relaxes me like nothing else.

Traffic is heavy downtown. Lots of people are on foot, partiers and late-night daters. It’s Friday night—actually early Saturday morning now. Last weekend I was booked solid, but this weekend there is so far only one appointment, late Saturday night. So I’m grateful for this out-of-the blue call. I need the money. Paying my tuition, dorm, lab, and parking fees this semester, along with buying textbooks, practically cleaned out my bank account. In a couple of weeks, payments on my auto loan and insurance are due. Then there’s the little matter of feeding myself; I don’t dare look thin or sickly. I’ve got to build up my account again, and fast.

The hotel is on Michigan Avenue, one of the ritziest in the city from the looks of it. I pull up to the main entrance. A valet in a long black wool coat with red lapels and a red wool cap is there almost immediately. Leaving the engine running, I open my door and climb out, grateful I won’t have to worry about my car. Finding a place to park downtown, even in the early morning hours, can be a nightmare. The valet smiles, welcomes me to the hotel, and slides behind the wheel. He doesn’t look much older than I am.

The doorman solemnly opens the way for me, and I walk through into a huge, ornate lobby. People are all over the place. I slip past the front desk and go straight to the elevators. The ride to the thirtieth floor seems to take forever, and my stomach starts flip-flopping again. Anxiety tingles through me, making my arms and legs tremble. Jesus, I have to pull it together. I can’t show up for the job looking like some junkie on a tweak. Deep breathing calms me down a bit.

The elevator door slides open, and I walk down the hall. Room 3014. I knock once, a sharp but discreet rap. As I wait I take another deep breath, blow it out. The lock clicks, and the door swings open. The man standing there is wearing a long, white, terry cloth robe. His legs and feet are bare. His head is bald, but he has a bristly mustache and beard, the hair black with just a touch of gray. I’d put him in his midforties. He looks me over quickly and then raises his thick, dark eyebrows.

“Mace,” he says, his voice a growl. “Get in here.”

He steps aside, and I walk into the room. It’s actually a suite, with a living room and, to the left, a dining room. The layout makes me nervous; I can’t be sure no one else is here. I stop in the living room and wait, since I have no idea where this man intends to conduct our transaction.

He closes the door, his eyes on me. One corner of his mouth goes up in a smirk. “You look exactly like your pictures,” he says. “That’s good. Nothing pisses me off more than having one of you guys show up looking fifteen years older than your ad shows. Bedroom’s through there.”

He points to the right, where there’s a hall. I don’t like turning my back on anyone in a situation like this, but he’s not leaving me much choice. He apparently doesn’t want to turn his back on me. I walk down the hall with the man following.

The bedroom is easily three times the size of my dorm room. The king-size bed is still made, with welcoming mints on the pillows. On the dresser, laid out in a row and easily visible, are five hundred-dollar bills. Just as I’d instructed. I stop in the middle of the room, turn around, and wait. The man made it clear on the phone; he likes calling the shots.

He stops in front of me. I’m six feet tall. He’s at least six four, a real bear. His middle is thick with the beginnings of a beer gut, but the rest of him is pure muscle. He looks like a pro wrestler or weightlifter. On his left hand, he’s wearing a thick gold wedding band. I admire the fact he didn’t take it off. He doesn’t give a shit what I think of him.

“Get those clothes off,” he snaps. “Throw ’em on the floor.”

I undress slowly, dropping every item around me as it comes off. When I’m naked, I stand there, letting him look me over. That smirk comes to his face again. He likes what he sees. That relaxes me a bit more.

“Come here.” His voice is soft, low, but still commanding.

I walk up to him. He just stands there, looking down at me. The scent of cigars is thick on his breath. It’s somehow disgusting and inviting at the same time. I actually want to kiss him. But it’s not about what I want. In a sudden, startling move, he grabs me by the back of the neck. Hard. It hurts. He puts his other hand on my shoulder and forces me down to my knees.

He shrugs out of the robe, revealing his big naked body. He smashes my face against his hairy belly. His hot skin tastes bitterly of salt and smells of fresh sweat. I can barely breathe. His hand around my neck is tight, almost choking me.

I don’t protest. It’s all part of the job.

About Gene

Gene Gant lives with his family in a small, rural community in West Tennessee. He has been a ghost writer for many years and is looking forward to publishing more works under his own name.