Friday, January 28, 2011

Gulliver Travels North: Provincetown or Bust!

UPDATE: My novel, Gulliver Travels is NOW ON SALE! You can grab the eBook or Paperback over at the book's official website, www.GrabGully.com!

With my buddy and editor extraordinaire, Alexander x Christopher sprucing up my gay novel, Gulliver Travels, and my friend Laz Marquez beginning work on the cover, I am happy to report that I have dived into writing the sequel to my MetroGay Novel.

What's it about? Well, I'm discovering it as I go along. My writing process is chaotic - I don't plan, I just write, and then clean up the mess when I'm done (and then hire an editor to clean up the new mess I make).

Anyway, I figured I'd go ahead and share with you the beginning of the first chapter of the sequel to Gully's adventure, which finds him and his crew of Hell's Kitchen queens in Provincetown.

Stick around, the original book which you haven't read yet will hopefully be coming out in April, 2011!

Let me know what you think!

Chapter 1

Gay men have an immense capacity for forgiveness.

No, I’m serious.

Hear me out, okay? There is no greater example of a gay’s saintly ability to let bygones be bygones than Britney Spears. Think about it. That girl has gone on a bevy of benders, shaved her head to the skull, spent a sextuplet of spells in the tiled white hallways and well-groomed gardens of rehab, popped out a pair of babies, flashed her lady parts to the paparazzi, and married complete and total weirdos with little-to-no worry for how her manic actions would affect her fan base.

And what do we do? We insult Brit-Brit and say we’re over her. We run to Lady Gaga and her meat dresses or Ke$ha and her tragic music videos or Xtina and her offensive film collaborations with Cher and confirm that we’re through with the drama. It’s over. This time, Britney has gone way to far.

But then time passes. “Circus” or “If U Seek Amy” comes up on our iPod and we catch our selves humming along and remembering the good old times. And then, even though we crossed our hearts and swore we wouldn’t, we forgive her. We follow the lead of the blanket-sheltered, pleading and shrieking drama uber-queen Chris Crocker and let Britney back in. She churns out a new single that may or may not even be the best one she’s put out, and there we are, at the clubs, our booties shaking and our drinks spilling over as we scream to our friends “Oh shit, this is my jam!” We’re buying up tickets to her shows so we can watch her lip-sync, dance in time to the dubstep, and pray that she’ll remember her dance moves without tripping over herself and plummeting into the crowd. This has happened at least three times to date. Still, we gays forgive her.

Why? I don’t know. But we do. Because anger is an explosion that colors everything red and fills us with poisonous rage. We feel wronged. We start swinging defensively. We say things we may not mean once the fog of fury passes us by and we’re left standing and clear headed for the first time. And time cuts anger as it passes, like a drug dealer peppering his stash of weed with oregano. Or like a bartender putting just a bit too much cran in your vodka every time you order it. Time passes – days, weeks, months – and we forget. We forgive.

And if gays can forgive Britney, then gays can forgive each other. Right? Sure, we may get into a couple of bitch-slap fights when we’ve drank too much after we’ve supposedly mended the rift betwixt us. We might say one thing and then spit shade out of the far side of our mouth, hissing how we’re not really cool with whoever we’re fighting with, and how the person we’re supposedly friends with is a skanky bitch unworthy of friends or his Starbucks Gold Card. We may even snap and go at each other full-on, after everyone else has incorrectly assumed that our fading feud and “situation” had chilled beyond even the Coldest Cold War status. But, at some point, days or weeks or months down the line, we lay down our weapons, meet at the table, hug it out, and order a round of Mojitos. Because time also heals all wounds, even the kinds that seem like they’ll break back open again no matter what. We forgive; We forget. The second part of that statement probably because of our drinking problems.

All that matters is this: Much like Britney, I too have been forgiven from my past, regrettable, seemingly world-destroying transgressions. This forgiveness was a long and bumpy road with a number of stumbles, pitfalls and back steps, but it happened. I am forgiven. Time has passed.

And thanks to all of that, I am presently unpacking my suitcases into one hell of a sweet-ass bedroom at the back of the famous Sandpiper House located smack in the center of the main thoroughfare of Provincetown, Massachusetts.

Todd DiTempto, my best friend through thick and thin and thick again, begrudgingly gave this room up to me. Hey, it was he who insisted on a Rock, Paper, Scissors tournament to determine who would bed down where in our 6-week summer share. And I won fair and square and with a steady, stubborn reliance on playing paper against everything that came my way. I won’t be spending the summer in the affectionately titled “Beachside Bedroom” by myself, though. My roommate, irony of ironies, is none other than Brayden Castro – a boy who almost one year ago to this very day was trying to beat me to death with a Blackberry at an underwear party on Fire Island. But that was a year ago. Since then, Brayden has forgiven Miss Britney Spears for everything, making  her single “Hold It Against Me,” the top played song on his iTunes. He’s traded in his Blackberry for an iPhone 5, and he’s forgiven me for engaging in a two-month secret relationship with his near-identical-looking ex-boyfriend, Marty Perry. Despite graciously granting me his official Homo Pardon and all the benefits that come with it, Brayden has still yet to forgive Marty.

He probably never will.

- Justin Luke

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