Blog number 7 – 22 November 2019

 

Hey, Jaye Hawks, how goes it? Here’s hoping y’all are getting into the Thanksgiving groove: psyching yourselves up for chaotic kitchen stress, super-scary calorie overload, and major family angst.

Angst along the lines of calling-bullshit-on-blatant-Wits & Wagers-cheating-and-suffering-the-inevitable-fallout-slash-upended-gameboard-slash-storming-from-the-room aftermath.

Oh, wait. Maybe that’s just our clan’s unique, cuddly-sweet little tradition.

Hardy har har.

But aside from the upcoming turkey/turnip/tequila triple-threat (hey, don’t knock it ‘til ya try it), JC must admit she is pumped. Seriously pumped, and it has nothing to do with homemade, lumpy mashed potatoes, that I can assure you.

No! What it does have to do with is the upcoming release of my sensual first scorcher, NEED IT, BAD (Tommy and Bebe). Weehoooo… It’s getting closer, hot mamas! Less than a month to go until numero uno in my naughty/humorous Breakaleg Trilogy makes its online debut December 13th!

Yes, Hawks, we are less than a month, and counting. And equally as exciting, my follow-up potboiler, NEED IT, WORSE (Gash and Tansy) is completed and in my editor’s competently-capable fingertips as we speak; on target for a sizzling Valentine’s 2020 release!

*(insert brief pause for a hard pinch to the flesh)*

Good God… Is this shit finally happening? Really, truly coming to fruition at last? Well, it’s about frigging time, says I! Cuz let me tell it to you straight—this mindboggling gig penning hour after hour (after hour) of sweet, dirty, and snarky prose has been a journey and a half, to say the least. A seemingly endless highway of ups, downs, and every in-between imaginable. With plenty of diabolically deep potholes strewn along the way, you betcha. Aw, yeah, you betcha.

Thrilling! Maddening! Euphoric! Hopeless! Joyful! Frustrating! Inspiring!

Discouraging! Encouraging! Discouraging! Encouraging. Discouraging! En…

Oops, scusi, repeating myself. My bad.

Anyhoo, you guys get the gist, right? (Feel free to buzz my therapist if you don’t believe me. Don’t worry, I told him it’s cool… After all, JC’s pretty much your proverbial “open book”. Hell, the stuff I’ve been dreaming up? Come on, people… This lady ain’t got nuthin’ to hide!)

Seriously, though. During the past couple of years (and two-and-a-half books happily in the bag) since I first put paws to keyboard, this purveyor of passion has labored over so many editing changes, tweaks, rewrites, and middle-of-the-night lightbulb ideas, it’s a miracle I haven’t gone starkers! (Pardon me, guv, but I adore me a good British aphorism.)

Even more of a miracle that my significant other has managed to refrain from smothering me in my sleep after enduring yet another “Can you listen to this chapter one more time, Hun? Just once more. Then I swear, I swear, I’m done.”

(Actually, between you and me, I have suspected the man of attempting such a dastardly act now and again. Call me paranoid, but I believe I’m still pounding out the paragraphs only because the laptop was a little too cumbersome to shove down my slumbering throat. Good thing I haven’t sprung for an iPad just yet, if you catch my drift.)

Alrighty then. That being said, it’s time for another little snippet of sexy Tommy- Branson-talk from NEED IT, BAD to whet your whistles until next week’s blog. Not to mention until you get your eyeballs on the whole ding-dang book!

And, hey… It’s fine with me if you wanna share the following stanzas with Grama Shirley or Uncle Bill over the marshmallow yam souffle. What better way to bond with the ol’ fam over a gravy-splattered tablecloth then a spicy reading straight from yours truly’s dirty little mind to your crowded dining room? 

I mean, for my money? This shit’s a thousand times more intriguing than Wits & Wagers. No freaking contest. And this way, you don’t have to go crawling on your hands and knees to find all the damned game pieces when your lunatic brother goes apeshit!

So, here ya go… A smokin’ glimpse into my hunky hero’s Bebe-addled brain, plucked from the “Caught By The Cops” chapter of the story. Read it with gusto as you pass the pumpkin pie. Caveat—just make sure the kiddie’s ears are covered.

 

When we got to the first light, I wondered where the fuck I was headed. Let me tell you, the choices were both lame and dismal. I drummed the wheel with miserable fingers, trying to think.

Back to Cypress, to drop Bebe off next to that scumbag neighbor of hers, who was no doubt lying in suds-drenched wait for her return? I grit my teeth. Shit, that would really suck.

To the nearest convenience store, to get more chips for Pop’s Saturday night treat? Hell, I had promised. Not that he’d remember, I’m sure, but a promise was a promise. I looked down. Oh, wait. My crotch. Folks would flee, shielding their children’s eyes. Which would also seriously suck.

The signal turned green, and I cruised another block or two—pissed, frustrated, and horny as a sprung monk. Lap drenched and cock howling, I chewed the inside of my cheek to ribbons, clueless which way to go. This textbook example of distracted driving resulted in me almost flying through a busy, four-way stop.

Swearing and braking at the last possible second, I turned to Bebe, who was catapulted back sharply by her belt. She was staring straight ahead with an adorable flush on her cheeks, ravaged tits swollen and showcased to perfection between the tight nylon band. Two stiff, elongated nipples poked straight out at the windshield, straining against stained, tight cotton; sexy as everluvin’ fuck.

Eyes wide, I almost rolled into an ancient scarecrow crossing the corner at the sight of that ball-draining vision.

“Tommy, watch out!”

I stomped on the brakes again in the very nick of time. Shit! My brows rose when Gramps leaned on his cane a foot from the window, raising a grizzled middle finger right in my apologetic face. I blinked, reddening. I guess I deserved it, but still!

Watching him hobble away, I came to a sudden decision. Okay. Fuck Cypress, and fuck the chips. Pop liked Doritos just as much, and I was almost positive I had an unopened bag of ʼem around somewhere.

I cleared my throat hoarsely, fingers thumping away while I waited ʼtil the old wizard was out of harm’s way. Halfway across the road, he paused, turning creakily and raising that defiant third digit again. Dumbfounded, I stared through the glass at his indignant, wrinkly face, watching as he flipped the bird even higher. A few horns around us tooted in solidarity.

Wow, really?

A little giggle split the silence, and I figured that was my opening. Nervously, I looked over at Bebe’s gorgeous, laughing lips. Trying to smile back, I wheezed out a couple sentences, smooth and articulate as ever.

“Old people, huh? Crazy. Uh, speaking of old people… You wanna go to my place? I, uh, gotta go relieve my neighbor. My pop’s got Alzheimer’s. He’s pretty fried.”

 

Here’s hoping you’re panting for more! Such as, what happens next, on Tommy’s big comfy couch… (Swoon.)

Hawks, don’t forget to share my links!

**$5.00 assorted gift cards provided for every five (5) new email buddies recruited for JC’s upcoming, once-a-month newsletter. Email me your permission-granted peeps’ info and I’ll send you your perk!                                                               
No limits! Great stocking stuffers! Help me build my mighty legion!

Website: jcjaye.com 

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Over and out for now, friends. Thanks for hanging with me.

A Happy, Happy Thanksgiving to all. May we always remember to count our blessings.

In humor, lust, ‘n’ love,

JC