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by William Maltese (with Cort Forbes) |
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ISBN: Prowler Books © 1997 $10.99 |
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World-renown William Maltese teams with author Cort Forbes for these five erotic short stories and one poem that'll knock your socks (and various other pieces of your clothing) off. The common thread for this work is one large and urban Boyland Park after dark. Think Griffith Park in Los Angeles. Think Central Park in New York. Think all sorts of hot and heavy activities commencing when the sun goes down. Think love, hate, voyeurism, S&M, hustling, kinky rough-sex fantasies. They're all here and make for some enjoyably arousing reading. If the main protagonists are mainly the young, handsome, and well-hung studs from which your and my wet dreams are made, they're just the ideal subject matter for Maltese who proves, once again, that he's obviously been there, done that (one of the story titles, by the way), and got the T-shirt.
"...an anthology about ... young guys, many of whom offer their sexual services for a fee. " |
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"A collection of six provocative tales ... [in which the authors do] ... a good job combining the realism of the cruising arena with arousing fantasy." -Beau, Volume 10 / Number 2 Eventually, I'm naked, handcuffs in-hand. Without hesitation, Blue rolls to his belly on the stump. His legs hang over one end, his head and arms hang over the other. He puts his wrists exactly where the handcuffs, one bracelet to one wrist, can be successfully threaded through an upbowed bit of root before attachment on the other bracelet to Blue's other wrist. Suddenly, I'm excited as hell by him, cuffed, naked, and seemingly vulnerable.There's something deliciously inviting about Blue's virgin butt so willing to be paddled. The paddle is heavy but well-balanced. Dark stains on its wood give evidence of bottoms hit hard enough to bleed. I stand behind and slightly to one side of Blue. I connect paddle to ass, the wood to naked buttocks sending a shock wave the entire length of my arm. There's a lingering vibration of the wood against butt before the paddle drops away. Blue's asscheeks are immediately polka-dotted with dark circles that match the pattern of holes in the paddle. |
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by William Maltese |
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Second Edition ISBN: Prowler Books © 2001 $12.95 |
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| They're all here. The hustler. The cowboy. The gas jockey. The collegiate fencer. The porno star. And all the rest who made the sold-out first edition of these erotic Maltese short stories a collector's item. Back by popular demand, in all their rutting splendor, courtesy of a Prowler Book's rare-indeed-in-this-business second printing. | |||
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"Sure, there's still that communing with nature that you're always hearing about. Sure, there's still that big thrill of being out there on a wave and knowing nothing but the wind and the wave and the slide down the glassy surface. But, surfing has lost some of its original mystical aura, because it's usually no longer a case of just you and the wave and nature. Now, there are those twenty other surfers out there trying to maneuver on that same wave as you are. Somehow surfing and surfers have been the losers in the adoption of surfing and surfers by the masses. Not that there still aren't loners who live expressly for each new wave. Not that there aren't guys who insist "getting it off" on a wave is a helluva lot better than fucking some guy or some chick. Sure as hell, those aficionados of the sport are still there. It's just that, over the years, they've gone from the majority to the minority. What you mainly have out there, these days, are guys like me. Not that I'm shooting down my own skill on the board. Because, I'm good. You want to see someone do a good nose-dive, a spinner, a head-dip, a backward-turn, I can show them to you without having to make any excuses for my skill. But most of the guys I know are no longer apt to head out into the water at daybreak and stay there until their skin puckers up like adolescent cock after its first masturbation. There's more to a surfer's life these days than just wind, water, and his surfboard. We may no longer have neighborhoods locking up their kids, but that's only because the surfers of today are those kids who used to be locked up. The majority of us are no longer loners whose lives (sex included), revolve around making it with one more great wave. We want an occasional good ride, sure. But, when the ride is over, we want something in addition. As I've already mentioned, heading off with a buddy or buddies to a good surfing beach does indeed offer opportunities for a little fooling around among healthy young men. |
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by William Maltese |
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First Edition ISBN: Prowler Press © 1998 $11.95 Out-of-Print |
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"Maltese is good. Maltese is very good. But don't take my word for it. Take as proof the way all of us plop down our hard-earned cash to make this one literally fly off the book shelves." -Raymond Lange, author THE BOY OF THIRA "As a writer of short stories, I would have given my left nut to have written an inaugural collection as erotically good and as readable as this one." |
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by William Maltese |
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ISBN: Prowler Books © 1999 $11.95 |
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| A short-story collection by way of worthy follow-up to Maltese's inaugural runaway bestseller CALIFORNIA CREAMIN'. More stories about cops, hustlers, fetishists, Indians, Latino studs. All of those "Maltese" beautiful young men delivered up for delectable eating ... rather, reading ... as only this author is capable of doing. | |||
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"Lots of body fluids in this one, and not just the buckets of sweat sexily glossing these hot-hot-hot California surfer bodies about which Maltese has such a knack for writing. Have an ice pack or wipe-up cloth handy when reading this genuinely worth-its-price sizzler!" -Christopher Dane, author RIDERS OF THE DRAGON. "I intimately know the sexual world about which William Maltese writes. I know he intimately knows our sexual world about which he writes. Anyone who knows and reads Maltese knows he knows. So if anyone out their wants vicariously to experience that world, you're not going to get a better chance than the hot and steamy pages of SUMMER SWEAT." There is something unbearably sexy about the movement of Caldron's muscles beneath their sensuous veneering of velvety dark-brown skin - as he makes each graceful swing of machete to down several cane stalks at one time - as he hoists the resulting lopped cane into piled-high carts for transport to the hand-operated presses whose bigger rollers crush the cane, and whose smaller rollers ooze green and sugary sap into awaiting buckets. Sexy, too, is the way Caldron sweats! Or, is it merely that I haven't paid that much attention to anyone's perspiration, my own included, before it became as much a by-product of my workday as sugar has? This day, Caldron's sweat pools the lower end of the jugular notch located at the base of his powerful throat. Its overflow runs the scalloped gully between his pectorals and momentarily lakes within the shallow lower cupping of his indented navel. Cascades eventually drool the remaining part of his scalloped belly. His abdominals, by the way, aren't horizontally washboard but composed of individual off-set rectangles that fit him like anatomically correct pieces of wrought armor once encased Roman centurions. His sweat exits the crinkly curls of dark hair at the nape of his neck. It flows his spine, between the flare of his parenthesizing twin shoulder blades. It soaks the waistband of his trousers and darkens the vee-shape breach where the top button of his four-button pants fly has been popped by some previous exertion - or, maybe has been popped by the efforts of so little material trying so hard to keep concealed so massive a chocolate cock and balls. A sweaty line begins at the exact spot where his buttocks meet at the base of his spine. The line dead-ends where his asscrease makes its final curve toward the back of his thighs. |
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