Hi guys, we have Kris Ripper stopping by with zir new release Gays of Our Lives, we have a great excerpt and a fantastic giveaway so check out the post and leave a comment to enter the giveaway! <3 ~Pixie~

Gays of Our Lives

Kris Ripper

Emerson Robinette only leaves his apartment to get laid and go to work. Having MS—and trying to pretend he doesn’t—makes everything more complicated, especially his fantasies of coming on strong and holding a guy down. Finding a partner who’ll explore that with him isn’t Emerson’s idea of a realistic goal.

Until a chance meeting with a hipster on a bus makes him reconsider. Obie is happy, open-hearted, and warm; what’s more, he gets his kicks being physically dominated, spanked, and teased until he’s begging. It would be perfect, except for one thing: Emerson isn’t made for happiness, and he doesn’t see how a guy like Obie would settle for a cynic like him.

But as far as Obie’s concerned, the only thing keeping them apart is Emerson. Can Emerson handle a boyfriend who’s more invested in his future than he is? Emerson’s barely convinced he has a future. But when Obie’s smiling at him, anything seems possible.

Excerpt

In my fantasies, I’m always the big, strong guy, the guy who looks like he could totally kick your ass, so when he caresses you, it blows your mind. Yeah, picture me as that guy, with muscles that bulge (but not too much), and eyes that fuck you up from across the room.

I sat in the back corner of the bar at Club Fred’s, dismantling a matchbook and watching Drag Night unfurl around me. I’d grabbed the stool closest to the wall, and because Fred’s was nothing if not quirky, there were about three inches between the stool and the wall. Just enough space for my ass to almost not slide into the gap. But still, it was a hell of a lot better than a stool with no wall, or standing.

Not a great day, body-wise, but I’d still made myself go out. I should have worn more comfortable clothes, because I could barely bend my knee in the ridiculous leather pants and I could feel my leg getting ready to seize up at the worst possible moment. But if I don’t go out when I’m having a bad day I’d never go out at all, so I force myself.

It wasn’t particularly bad. A little tingly, that’s all. Oh, did I not mention I have MS? Multiple sclerosis. Yeah. Well, anyway. That’s why I’m never gonna be the big, strong guy with those abs. That guy? Doesn’t travel with his collapsible cane at the ready just in case.

“Emerson, boy, you’re a sight for sore eyes!”

Okay, the truth is I’ve never had a lot of friends. I have acquaintances through different channels who don’t get sick of me; some of them decide we’re friends. Like Zane. She was my real estate agent, and now we’re . . . friends. Kind of.

“Hey, Zane.” I watched her lean in toward the cute lesbian on the next stool over and whisper in her ear. The girl blushed and moved her tiny jeweled handbag to her lap so she could shift stools, giving Zane the one next to me.

I couldn’t help smiling. Zane was kind of a . . . force to be reckoned with.

“What’d you say to her?”

“Told her she was way too cute to be the kind of asshole who takes two stools, and anyone she might be waiting for would be a fool to sit with her at the bar when they could be dancing. Yo, Fredi! Can a thirsty woman get a beer around here or what?” When the bull dyke who owns the bar didn’t even acknowledge her, Zane sat back, brushing a shock of purple hair out of her eyes. “Damn busy in here, which I guess is the point of these silly fuckin’ theme nights.”

“I forgot it was a theme night,” I admitted.

She laughed. “Joke’s on you! Seriously, you know what I think about these nights?” After another check to make sure Fredi was at the other end of the bar, she leaned in. “Welcome to the Queers of La Vista, Emerson. It’s an ongoing soap opera where all of queer La Vista gets together to rub off on each other and gossip.”

“You think it’s really that bad?”

Zane waved an expansive arm, and didn’t seem to notice when she almost knocked the little lesbian’s head off. “Okay, over there you’ve got the La Vista rite of passage, a young queer turning twenty-one. And look, he’s surrounded by his hottie friends, and he’s got a good-looking black boyfriend who’s definitely the reason he’s here tonight, because that kid’s probably never set foot in a bar before now.”

The kid in question sort of tilted toward his boyfriend while we watched, bashful and begging to be drawn out of himself. I turned away. Boys like him were my kryptonite, as if I could look at them and imagine their skin under my hands. But I knew I’d never touch them. Too pure.

My leg twinged like it knew I was thinking about tying up a boy with an innocent face and it wanted to remind me that if I tried, it’d end badly. Thanks, leg. Message received.

Okay, so I’d never tied up anyone. But I’d always wanted to. I just hadn’t exactly gotten around to it. And since the diagnosis, it seemed like a stupid idea. This is one of those diseases they can’t cure, that only fucks you more as time goes on. Why would I even bother?

Zane, who was still explaining the characters starring in her imaginary soap opera, poked me suddenly.

I twitched away from another poke. “What?”

“Check out DJ Rixx eyeing you over there.”

It’s not as if I’m a font of pop culture, but DJ Rixx had posters all over the East Bay. That face? Come on.

The boy she was all-too-obviously gesturing at had the same baby face, the same hooded eyes. I swallowed a gulp of my beer (my one beer, don’t go all health-lecture on me), and tried to distract her.

“So, how’s the whole, uh, trying to get pregnant thing going?”

She turned fully toward me, and I didn’t shrink back, at all, so any rumor you’ve heard to the contrary is a lie. “How’s the multiple sclerosis coming?”

“You think of pregnancy as a disease?”

“I think of it as something I have limited control over and don’t really know what to say when people ask me how it’s going. I’m not pregnant.” She bowed her head, like some kind of distinguished gent in a top hat. “I know you didn’t mean anything, Emerson. Just, I get sick of people asking.”

“Sorry.” I was, too. Because I knew what she was saying, and yeah, I got it.

“Anyway, you should go over there and talk to Rixx. I’ll stay here and wait for Fredi to bring me refreshment, and make up more stories about people. Hey, can I ask you a question that might be really fucked up?”

“Sure.”

She leaned in, and the wildly colorful polka-dot shirt thing she had on kind of drifted against my arm. “How long does it take you to switch pronouns when someone, y’know, transitions?”

I blinked. “Um. I don’t have any idea.” Okay, truth: I don’t really know that many trans people. It’s not like they have a thought bubble over their heads that reads Hi, I’m trans, ask me about my pronouns. How would I even know? I mean, except when you . . . know.

“Because I totally misgendered a really good friend of mine in my head and now I’m afraid to go talk to him because what if I do it while we’re talking?”

“Well, but how often do you need a gendered pronoun when you’re talking to the person?”

Zane brightened right up. “Hey, great point. Okay, I’m gonna go talk to Ed, you’re gonna go talk to Rixx, and one of us is gonna get laid. So go seduce that boy.” She didn’t quite shove me off my stool, but she obviously wanted to.

I ran a few internal tests on my left side. I’d had serious pins and needles on the bus and when I first sat down, but I’d tried to stretch it out unobtrusively, and now I felt pretty stable.

It was a bad day. I don’t have to wonder if my leg’s going to hold me up a hundred percent of the time. But stools are kind of a dumb idea anyway. I just like sitting on them. They feel so bar-like.

I shifted my messenger bag, feeling for the shape of the cane. It was there if I needed it. I hated knowing I might.

The guy was still looking in my direction, so I smiled at him.

He smiled back.

I’m so fucking in right now. I managed to ease myself off the stool without falling or jerking around, and started toward the Rixx-alike.

Who held my gaze, yeah, with those smoky eyes. I couldn’t tell if he’d used makeup to get that look, or he was naturally blessed with a mysterious air about him. Not that I cared. I wanted him on his knees with my dick in his throat and my hands in his hair, and I sure as hell didn’t care if he had on eye shadow or whatever.

This is a good time to remind you that you should be picturing me tall, and strong, and cut. Not skinny with a limp and stooped shoulders. I used to be pretty strong, but apparently you have to eat to keep up muscle mass, so at this point the most you could really call me is “lean,” and that’d be if you were too polite to say “scrawny.” Oh, and give me a crew cut that makes you think twice about fucking with me, okay? Pay no attention to my limp soot-colored hair.

Anyway, fake DJ Rixx didn’t seem to give a shit about my hair. He straightened as I approached, and his smile widened.

“I was hoping you’d come over here. I’m Joey.”

“Emerson.” We shook hands, the way you do when you plan to fuck someone in ten minutes. Like, Let’s take a minute to pretend we’re evolved before we maul each other.

“Tell me you don’t want to sit down,” he said. “It’s not really my crowd in here tonight.”

“Me neither.” Actually, I love drag nights. I just wasn’t in the mood for one.

Joey’s eyes sharpened on me. “Go to the back?”

“Sure.”

God, this would be fucking fantastic. Assuming we were on the same page. Not that I’m anti–blowing guys—I’m definitely not anti–blowing guys—but no way was I trusting my leg to kneel and then get me up again.

Fuck it. Joey wanted me. I could tell by the look on his face.

If I was the guy I pretended to be, I would have pushed ahead, led him to the back hallway, to the suspiciously large men’s room where Fredi pretended nothing untoward happened. Instead I’m the guy who followed his trick to the back, praying to gods I don’t believe in that my leg didn’t pick this moment to totally screw me over.

But that ass. I had no idea what the actual DJ Rixx’s ass looked like, but the La Vista version had an ass that begged to be spanked.

Joey and I found an empty stall, and I was already half-hard just thinking about his pink lips on my dick. He seemed pretty fucking into it too, judging by the rod he was adjusting in his tight jeans.

Yeah, this was gonna be perfect. I grabbed his neck, pushing him to his knees. His hands hit my thighs. Yes, fuck yes. I thrust forward, more a hint of what was to come, but the motion somehow messed up my balance, and I felt myself tumble. Somehow I twisted, trying to save myself with my right side, but overcompensated and caught my lower back on the toilet paper holder.

“Shit!”

The kid, Joey, scrambled off the floor and backed against the stall divider like he’d burn if I touched him.

“Everything okay in there?” some helpful jackass asked, laughter underpinning his words.

“Fine,” I forced myself to say through clenched teeth. The pain shone white-hot, more an impression of color than sensation, sizzling through my nerves. I was shaking. I could keep myself up on the toilet paper dispenser, but even though my left leg had returned from its temporary vacation to wherever the hell it went when it simply stopped working, I wasn’t about to risk putting my weight on it.

And, oh god, Joey was staring at me like I was some kind of circus freak. He noticed me looking and wiped the expression off his face.

“Hey, you all right?” His voice had changed. It was now some mix of the voice you use for the homeless guy you watched fall off the curb and the one you use for the little old lady you’re playing checkers with in the nursing home to work off your community service.

“Yeah. Fine. Probably should have eaten earlier . . . or something.” Dig yourself in deeper, Emerson. Now I needed him to get the fuck out of there and leave me alone. Sex was no longer an option. Fuck, leaving Club Fred’s without my cane was also no longer an option.

“You, uh, want me to walk you out? You got a car or something?”

I know I’m supposed to be grateful and shit when people offer help. I know this thing where I want to claw their eyeballs out of their heads is probably not healthy. But still.

He must have seen something in my expression, because he held up his hands. “Hey, no worries.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” I slid as far as I could out of the way, but we were basically stuck together in the stall. In order to get past me, he had to brush against my body, and I couldn’t help noticing he was still hard as a rock.

I closed my eyes after he left, barely resisting the urge to bang my head into the cinder-block wall a few times. It’s not super trendy to be the bitter cripple, but sometimes I can’t help it. I hate this. I hate that I can’t trust my body. I hate that there’s no cure. I hate that some people with MS seem totally fine, like you can’t tell their body is betraying them, and I’m this skinny prick who can’t even get sucked off in a bathroom without falling apart.

I didn’t bang my head into the wall. Self-pity is so much prettier when you don’t have blood running down your face.

The cane needed more clearance than I had in the stall, so I pushed open the door and shook it out until it clicked, ignoring the stares of whoever the fuck was in there. No one I knew, apparently; they all looked away with that guilt/shame response that’s as good as putting up a sign reading Maybe if I don’t look, it won’t happen to me.

Hobbling back down the hall was better with the cane than it would have been if I’d tried leaning against things and hoping for the best. Daring to hope always made me so vulnerable to failure; having a prop made it easier to pretend I didn’t give a shit.

The trip across the room took longer, and I kept to the edges, trying not to over-rely on the cane or trip anyone. Zane was back at the bar, chatting up the cute lesbian. I tried to look away before she saw me, but no luck. I watched her spot the cane, and didn’t wait to see what her face would do then.

I got the fuck out of Fred’s and limped my ass to the bus stop. Almost nine months after my diagnosis and this was it, this was the end of my Friday night: boarding the bus with a scattering of drunk teenagers and various swing shift workers on their way home, clutching my cane, wondering if people were looking at me trying to figure out what the hell a thirty-one-year-old needed a cane for. I hoped they thought it was an affectation.

I did not think of Joey’s hooded gaze on me in the club, or the blowjob that might have been.

Read more at: http://riptidepublishing.com/titles/gays-of-our-lives (Just click the excerpt tab)

About Kris

Kris Ripper lives in the great state of California and hails from the San Francisco Bay Area. Kris shares a converted garage with a toddler, can do two pull-ups in a row, and can write backwards. (No, really.) Kris is genderqueer and prefers the z-based pronouns because they’re freaking sweet. Ze has been writing fiction since ze learned how to write, and boring zir stuffed animals with stories long before that.

Connect with Kris:

• Webiste: com
• Facebook:facebook.com/kris.ripper
• Twitter: twitter.com/SmutTasticKris

Giveaway!

To celebrate the release of Gays of Our Lives, Kris is giving away your choice of ebook from zir backlist. (Any release from Kris Ripper prior to Gays of Our Lives.)!

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