GUEST STAR: SUE BROWN

Today I am lucky enough to be on the sofa with one of my bestest pals and partners in crime, Sue Brown! Sue has decided to waffle about teeth and foreskins today....both of which I'm a fan of.....

Who are you? Yes, you. If you’ve taken the time to read this blog, I’d like to know who you are – or as much as you want to tell me. Are you an author, a reader, a reviewer, someone who likes all the hotties that Lisa posts? Maybe you’re a friend of Lisa’s. Do you know me? If you know me, do you know ‘me’ or ‘Sue’?

What did you say? I’m being nosy? Oh all right then, I’ll get on with it. So what should I be talking about? 

Hmmm, stereotypes, teeth and foreskin… is that okay?

Teeth, yes, teeth. I’ll start with teeth. It’s going to take me a while to work up to foreskin. Stereotypes. Do you think they apply where teeth are concerned? The one I see a lot is that Brits have rotten teeth.

Now, before you Brits start yelling at me, hey I’m one too. I have a mouthful of Brit teeth. I laugh when I see American actors playing homeless people with glow-in-the-dark teeth, or my favourite Supernatural, where the gorgeous fighting-demons men always have time for their dental check-ups and bleach. Then I look at a British cop show and shudder at the gnashers on display.

The one thing you will never, ever find in my books is a dentist. I cannot make a sexy dentist. Dentists aren’t sexy. They are people who poke painfully at your gums and use machines that whine. I don’t like whiny machines. Can you tell I’ve been to the dentist today?

Onto the next stereotype. I was reading an article about Hugh Grant today. It had the normal sub-IQ level comments. One of them said all British men are smelly, with cheese-encrusted foreskins. Please understand that for my delicate readers, I have corrected the spelling and turned it into English. I was also thinking about other things because I originally read it as diamond encrusted foreskins!! Believe me, I was there, front of the queue.

There is no way I’m getting into an argument about cut or uncut. It’s one thing that Americans and Brits will never agree on, if they ever think about it. Just assume, if I write American they are cut, and if I write Brit, they have a little extra to play with. As for cheese-encrusted, believe me, we have moved out the caves and know how to use a shower.

So, a story I won’t be writing… a sexy, bleach-obsessed, cut dentist trying to fix a hunky, uncut (no diamonds or cheese) Brit with crooked teeth.

Shamelessly objectifying men here: http://suesdailymale.blogspot.com/

Talking about my writing and promoting books here: http://suebrownsstories.blogspot.com/

Rambling about everything else here: https://www.facebook.com/suebrownstories

Chasing the Dream anthology:

Buy link: https://spsilverpublishing.com/product_book_info/anthology-bundle-c-27/chasing-the-dream-anthology-ebook-p-411

Racing Raindrops by Sue Brown

The sudden rain shower caught Tony by surprise. He looked for options to wait it out before continuing his journey to the grocery store, relieved to spot a bar just across the street. Making a sudden detour, Tony avoided falling over a stroller filled with a sleeping toddler. He apologized to the outraged mother and headed for the door, her angry shouts following his progress. It was dark and warm inside Mac's Bar, a welcome relief from the heavy raindrops.

 Shaking his head to clear the water from his face, Tony froze on the doorstep, nerves coiling in the pit of his stomach, as he suddenly realized what kind of bar it was. He could find another bar. This wasn't the only establishment along the street. Or he could grow a set and take the final step, a rite of passage to acknowledge that he wasn't as arrow straight as he told the world. If he stepped over the threshold, there would be no going back.

It was just a frigging gay bar, for fuck's sake. The world wasn't going to shake just because Tony DiMarco took a drink in a fag bar.

Maybe not the whole world, but his little part of Manhattan would be shaken to its very core. There was a good chance his momma and poppa would never talk to him again. Anthony DiMarco III, son of fourth generation Italian storekeepers, the first DiMarco to go to college, an internee every summer for their local senator, a rising star in local politics--there was no way they were going to accept he was a faggot.

"My boy's gonna go all the way to the top!" his poppa boasted to anyone who'd listen. He was so proud of his oldest son.

Poppa wouldn't be so proud of Little Tony now, would he? Old Tony hated all queers and was proud to boast that the only time some fag came onto him, the fanuk lost all his front teeth. Tony shivered. There was good reason not to tell his Poppa that Little Tony liked the boys.

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