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John May woke up early that morning for no apparent reason. He brewed up a pot of coffee on that old Mr. Coffee machine that he held on to ever since his graduate school days. If it ain’t broke, why bother to buy a new one, he thought. The cold wind that ran through the streets of Pittsburg did not provide enough incentive for John to put a pair of sweatpants on. In his underwear, he greeted the morning.
John May was the kind of a guy who enjoyed his morning routine and nothing was more central to that routine than the old cup of cup and reading the morning newspaper. John did not have much interest in the news sections, the financials or even the sports. He was the kind of a man who read between the lines searching for a clue. Of course, one could theoretically argue that John was a bit of a conspiracy theory but that was not the case at all (or maybe it was). John knew the ways of the media. He had an undergraduate degree in journalism and knew all about newsroom routines, gatekeeping and media framing. In between the lines was the way that those in charge communicated with one another. In between the advertorials, editorials and daily columns, in the fine print, that was where the truth was hidden from the reading masses.
On page A5 John came across a clue. The headline could not be more convincing.
52% OF WOMEN NEVER EXPERIENCED AN ORGASM, the headline read.
This was exactly the kind of a thing that made you wonder. And if it did not make you wonder, thought John, well at least it should.
Back in the old days, he ran across old Herb Schiller his journalism professor back at the University of California at San Diego. Schiller told the class that they should never believe anything they read in the newspaper.
“Everything that you read in the newspaper, hear on the radio or watch on television is nothing short of a corporate conspiracy to turn you into a better consumer. Those people want you to equate your happiness with the art of shopping. Had a bad day at work, buy some shoes. Your boyfriend cheated on you, take his credit card and get some shopping therapy. Don’t believe anything that they say.” That was the kind of a lecture that would often be heard in Schiller’s seminars. John May loved every part of it. It made sense when you really thought about it.
The coffee tasted a bit rusty that morning. Maybe Pam was right after all. Maybe it was time to buy a new coffee maker and throw away the old dusty machine that he bought at Target for ten dollars more than three years ago.
But what about the headline, he thought could this really be true? Fifty two percent seemed a bit excessive to John. And what those other forty eight percent, he thought. Was it a function of psychology or was it all the guy’s fault as he heard many of his female friends argue. Thinking back to those five women that he somehow managed to lay so far in his short twenty five year career, he could not remember if 2.6 of those women actually did or did not reach sexual climax.
The first time he did it was sometime back in high school. He was a frightened pimple faced junior and she, an overweight twenty four year old woman who seemed more bored than anything on her overextended semester break. Thinking back of that night, he felt nothing but shame when he recalled just how quickly he came just as soon as he felt that incredible touch of the female flesh for the very first time in his life.
Her name was Lucy and she did not protest. She was more of a resourceful type than a complainer. She simply walked into the shower, cleaned herself up and then forced him to eat her out until should reached satisfaction.
Then there was that girl that he met during freshman orientation back at UCSD . She was a stacked woman with enough meat on her to feed a small village in Bangladesh. John did not remember her name. When he thought about it, he never did know it in the first place. They somehow stumbled into bed after a freshman party back in the dorms. John did not have any condoms on him but she insisted on penetration. Twenty seconds later, her sizeable stomach was painted in the colors of white apprehension. She gave him a dirty look and then proceeded to transfer into the bed of his roommate who pretended to be sleeping. John stared at the dorm ceiling as he listened to his roommate Dave give the girl a proper fuck. Ten minutes passed and then he heard a woman come for the first time. Was she faking it out of spite for his non-proficient performance or did Dave really supply the goods. 48% says that it was spite over Dave.
Then there was Patty, the girl he briefly dated during senior year. Patty came from a small town in Alabama. He could not remember if it was Tuscaloosa or someplace right in the area. Patty was a nice girl. She was always kind to John and was the one who taught him how to manage his erections and hold on to them for just a bit longer. She showed him how at a simple push of the external vein, right at the base of the cock, he could buy himself a few more seconds inside.
When it came to Patty Valentine, John had no doubts. If anyone had an orgasm it was her. How did he know? Well she always made a point to announce. Clinching on to his skin, grinding her teeth and pulling his hair she rotated her hips all around, closed her eyes, scratch her nails until she finally shout out that old slogan of the Alabama football team: GOOOOOOOO TIIIIIEEEEDDDD.
Patty loved the University of Alabama football team. This she made clear every Saturday when she watched SEC football. This she made clear on those rare occasions when he managed to hold on long enough to validate the newspaper’s statistics.
John managed to fall in love with Patty Valentine and things were going pretty well until graduation. They talked about moving in together. They talked about graduate school out in Iowa State were John was admitted into a Master’s degree with a guaranteed research stipend for his first three semesters. Things were moving along on track until Patty flew down to Alabama to visit her family a few weeks after graduation. There she met up with her old high school sweetheart Dale Gary who not only played high school football for the champion Cougars but was also a walk on defensive end for the University of Louisiana Raging Cajun football team.
John was crushed when he heard the news. Patty never bothered to fly back to deliver the news face to face. It all happened so quickly over the phone. John tried to reason with her, to win her sympathy, to appeal to her love, but none was left for him. He had no choice but to move on.
After Patty, John took a break from women. They were creatures of betrayal, he thought. Their only loyalty was to their own interests. They knew nothing of a man’s heart.
It was two years later that Pamela came into his world. Pam was not an attractive woman but at least she was nice. At first she refused anything beyond friendship. Why ruin a good thing with all of those complications? She often told him when he tried to come close and kiss her.
Pam introduced John to her girlfriends as her heterosexual gay friend. John never really connected with any of those types. But on one particular Friday night they were playing drinking games and John had way too much to drink. The only thing that he recalled was waking up naked next to Pam’s most horrendous looking friend, Michelle. Nothing was to ever be spoken of that night, he pledged. The shame was beyond him. Number four would be kept secret for as long as possible. He only hoped that Pam would never find out about the events that took place on that night. Despite his best hopes, Michelle told her all but Pam did not seem to mind.
About a year later, to his surprise, Pam turned into number five. He could not be any happier.
John stared at the newspaper headline and scratched his head. There was so much that he did not know about women. Unfortunately, he did not too many male friends to give him any advice.
Later one, when Pam woke up, she poured herself some Hazelnut creamer into her rusty cup of coffee.
“Don’t believe everything that you read in the newspaper John. That statistic could only be written by a man and obviously, a relatively ignorant one. The real numbers are much lower than you would think. I even doubt that 33% of women ever experienced a multiple orgasm and numbers may actually be lower.
John was never that good when it came down to statistics. Back when he was an undergraduate student, he barely passed the Introduction to Business Statistics course with a below average grade of C-. As for women, newspaper headlines and the rest of the world, John all but understood that he will never truly understand.
“Did you ever have a real orgasm with me?” he asked of Pam.
She in turn simply smiled and said, “Well of course I did sweaty, you gave me many.”
John felt better for a moment until he recalled that university lecture back in his undergraduate days at UCSD where he learned not to trust anything that was printed in the newspaper, heard on the radio or seen on TV but more than anything else he learned never to trust the smile of a more experienced woman.

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A man walks down the street. Later he stops. He sees something sparkling on the gray paved floors of the city. He can not tell whether it is a nickel or a quarter. For the first he would not bother to kneel, for the second, perhaps. He thinks about it for a while and then walks away without bother. Neither one would really make a difference. Neither one would ease his financial shortcomings.

A man walks into a bar. It is only 4:41pm and there are not too many people around. Happy Hour will start at five o'clock sharp. He thinks about it for a while. How will he look just sitting there on the bar for a whole 19 minutes? But then again, what kind of a fool would pay $6 for a beer when they will go on special in a matter of a short time? He walks out of the bar and heads down towards the 9 train station without paying it another thought.

A man meets a woman for their first date. They met online. They both ran into one another in one of those romance forums. They chatted for more than three hours. What did they not talk about? Everything from the presidential elections to the size of her breasts. She claims that they are real but who ever knew these days. At first, he did not want to meet but she reassured him with several pics of herself. She had a great smile.

When she finally walked in he realized that the pictures that she had sent him were as representative as any other lie that a woman can tell. At the late age of thirty one he should have known better than to trust a stranger.

It wasn't her weight in particular that bothered him. Sure, she was about fifty pounds heavier than she claimed to have been. Somehow she just expected him to ignore that small misrepresentation under the veil of not being shallow. He thought about it for a while.

He bought her a dirty martini and then another and another. Sure he was short hundred bucks but with every drink that he took in, he became more forgiving of her gross physical falsification. He thought about it for a while.

She gave him head on a wooden bench late night in Washington Square Park. Her lips grasped him like the rim of an uncorked bath. He shot it straight in her mouth. While she placed the purple lipstick across her swelled lips she wondered if he would be interested in spending the night.

He had to wake up early for work but promised to call her sometime.

Will you really call? She guardedly inquired.

He thought about it for a while and walked away in silence.

Single Man Thoughts

Jersey was sick and tired of her old leather jacket. She got it as a gift a few years back from John her old college boyfriend. Three years have pasted since graduation and she was no were near to where she thought she would be back when she was younger. She could still recall those days at the University of Pittsburg, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes in the area outside of the so called Cathedral of Learning. Only three years have pasted and already all hope was washed away. Jersey planned on becoming the great American novelist. That was always what her father hoped for. He loved literature only slightly less than he loved his own daughter. When she was born, her mother thought about naming her Emily after her mother but he her father somehow managed to convince her to name the young girl Jersey after his favorite author Jerzy Kosinski. Jersey never liked her name. Like all children she wanted to fit in.

That all changed after the fall of the Soviet backed government. That's when her father quit his university position in the Hungarian University of Fine Arts where he taught world literature and moved his family to the United States. Jersey could still remember that flight to New York. She never set foot in an airplane before. She was simply petrified as the plane flew into the atmosphere. She recalled how her father held her hand while reading to her. Till this day, she could feel that ease that came to her as her father read from the short stories of Anton Chekhov. He always knew how to encourage her no mater how sad or alone she felt in this world.
Three years have past since she graduated from her undergraduate studies. Four painful years since her father past away. And what did she have to show for it all? An old jacket given to her by another disappointing man and a handle of short stories. That was pretty much it.
Jersey walked into that old Salvation Army store where she traded her old jacket for one that seemed even older. Never minded how much she paid for that old rag, at least she was rid of that old memory. She walked into the connivance store for a pack of cigarettes, there she ran into Dylan. He was also a student in professor Kinder's American literature class. He too was named after a famous writer. Most people always assumed that he was named after the famous Bob Dylan. Few ever knew that his mother wrote her dissertation on the hidden Catholic themes in Dylan Thomas' famous work Under Milk Wood.

Dylan was all smiles as usual. She never saw the guy sporting a frown. At first she thought of him as a fake. Nobody can ever be all that happy. That all changed after professor Kinder read his short story "Being There" about Dylan's days growing up in the heartland of Indiana. Her words rang with genuine humility. He clearly was a good guy.

And then, on that day, after he asked her out for coffee, as he held on to that box of Malbero lights, she felt so alive if only for a moment. She carefully smiled in his direction, turned back and slowly walked away.
A newspaper on the coffee shop counter must have been left behind by someone who had no use for it. Jersey picked it up and smiled. The headline on the front page read the following "New Jersey Abolishes the Death Penalty".

Jersey smiled for a moment with a sense of irony. Thinking back to Dylan's smile, she could if just for a moment once again feel somewhat alive.

NYC Novels

Around the corner of 68th and Columbus there was a Christmas tree stand that offered a variety of trees of all shapes and sizes to the people of New York. The many who live alone settle for one of those shorter trees that are easier to carry. Those usually went for $20. They cost $15 to those who knew how to bargain down. Those with families, especially the ones who had children had to go for the large ones. Those were much more expensive. But nothing made Christian people feel more blissfully festive that those glittering lights that shun within the realm of that fresh winter pine. Or at least that was what they always told me.

Regardless of what anyone may say or think, there was something special about the Christmas season for any of us regardless of religion. These days, no one is allowed to refer to it as the Christmas season any longer. You were supposed to say the Holiday season. No one wanted to offend anyone else these days. We were all tipping toeing around one another’s hypocritical toes.

Even though the snowstorm was getting worst with every passing minute, she continued to stand out there in the cruelty of the snow. On the other side of the window, people sat gathered within the confines of that corporate warmth. Sipping on hot chocolates and soy lattes, they had no sympathy for the poor Christmas tree girl who was freezing her tits off for $6.75 an hour. To those who actually took the time to notice her, she appeared like an anomaly, like a white polar bear who ran around the Central Park zoo, like the kind of a person whose disposition made us all feel that much better about our own lives.

It was rather atypical for me to find myself around these parts of the city. I never really understood what the big deal was about the upper west side.

An hour later, as the wind bashed across my face, I thought about it all and smiled away. Holding on to a small Christmas tree under left armpit and her number scribbled on a small note within my right pocket, I felt so alive and thought about just how great it was to be a Jew in Manhattan around this time of the year.

Hard-Boiled Men

You know, I told him, dating a woman who is more than ten years younger than yourself is not as easy as it sounds. Take my Samantha, just for a minute, as an example.
Sam is 24 years old, she downloads music, she doesn’t read books. When she finally picks up the printed word, it is usually Glamour or Cosmo Magazine. Sure, those great magazines taught her how to give descent head, but it also filled her head with way too much shit. Sam watches television for hours. She loves that TMZ.

Last night, after we made love, Sam turned around and told me about that Teri Hatcher lawsuit that is being pursued by some skin care company. She told me all about the ruckus that Eva Mendes dealt with when she got out of Manhattan's Gramercy Park hotel. Sam was concerned about the reported tension between Brittney Spears and Paris Hilton, God, she claimed, will they ever really be true friends? Sam told me all about another breakup between Lindsay Lohan and Riley Giles, Hulk and Linda, Solange Knowles and her man.

I walked out of the bedroom and rolled a joint. A long and meaningful inhale made my life that much more bearable. A man in his thirties could only take that much. When I returned back to my bedroom, I watched Sam polishing her perfectly manicured nails.

I never heard of Eva Mendes, I did not know who Solange was or why I should care. I put on that old Tom Waits album to listened to his cigarette worn voice breezing through my ear drum. Sam has never heard of old Tom, nor did she know who Henry Miller was or Bukowski, or Leonard Cohen, or Kosinski, or……..

Samantha’s skin glowed in the essence of its youth. Her breasts seemed firm and vivacious popping out of her extra small sized Victoria Secrets nighty. Oh such beauty within her thighs.

A man as smart or obtuse will always lay within the bed that he made for himself. Such was mine, picturesque and forlorn. Samantha fell asleep to those cheerleader dreams that sweetened her night. I diminished within my own. Years went by and memories remained.

Not even time itself could put away those memories of a woman that I left behind.

NYC Novels

"The craziest thing in the world is drinking Soy milk!!" At least that's what she said. I knew nothing about the whole subject of nutrition, unless of course you asked me what the percentage of alcohol was in beer.
"Jenny puts Soy milk in her breakfast drink. I personally think it is disgusting."
While she was talking, I went over the whole catalog in my head, the world's largest storage house for useless information. Most American beers, I recalled, were kind of low when it came to the percentage of alcohol. Budweiser (The King of Beers) contained 4.82% per bottle. Coors was a bit better with 5.03%. That third beer, Miller Light was the worst of them all with 4.51%, drinking that stuff was just like drinking a bottle of distilled water. What was the point? Big John always tried to be all European about it. He told me that while beer was invented in Egypt, it was actually refined in Western Europe. But all of that stuff was not for a guy like me. I was too much of an American type, simple, liked my pancakes with butter and my meat on a bun. McDonald's if possible. A quarter pounder with cheese. I would never pass for one of those fancy European types who hung around the bar and drank Grolsch Lager while discussing world affairs. Give me college football and a 12 pack of Old Milwaukee Beer. They sell that one for $6.95 where I live.
Cindy wanted to go buy some organic milk. "But none of that Soy shit" she insisted. I guess she was still upset at the fact that she caught me and Gina making out at the bar. We both had too many of those Miller Lights. That shit will get ya.

Recommended Books

As soon as the hour struck Eleven, Manny became certain about altering his original intentions. Now that all drink specials were no longer available and most of those bottles of imported beer were artificially inflated back to $4.75, there was nothing to do but reassess the situation. He looked around at the women who gathered around that long wooden bar, they appeared as beautiful as a garden of impossibility. One of them in particular had his attention, Leslie Spearman from his Introduction to Meteorology class.

Leslie was nothing like those who surrounded her. She did not seem to have that idiotic way about her. While her friends crowded around those boisterous fraternity boys like grass-chewing sheep, she looked around the rooms with a wondrous eye.

Manny thought about approaching. He was never one to back away from a fight. As he came closer he overhead Leslie's best friend Heather verbalize the following words: "So I went over there and she was like, O my God, and I was like whatever…" Grass chewing sheep should do better than that, Manny thought to him self. Or at least he was hopeful that such was the case.

So now that beers were out of budget and love was out of the realm of possibilities, there was no choice for Manny but to become a thief. Yes, a thief I said, the kind that stole money away from unsuspecting victims, the kind that went home with the funds of those unsuspecting kinds. But then again, that was not exactly true. Manny was not any common form of a thief but rather a Robin Hood type. He only stole from those who deserved to be taken advantage of. He only stole from those who brought harm to the world. He only stole from women. Not all women but only those women who ruined the English language on a daily basis.

For every Heather and Stacey and Brittney and Brianna who mouthed off such words as "and I was like", "and I said like whatever" and "and I was like so embarrassed that I was like no way", there was a hard earned dollar to be stolen, revenge to be taken in the name of the largely under-funded English Department.

Manny loved the works of Hemingway and William Faulkner. He adored those inspired novels that were written by Tolstoy and the likes of Celine. When he bothered to share this fondness for books with his victims, they would display an listless eye.

Luckily Jack came around with another round. Jack was always generous in that way. Cheap American beer, but hey, Manny was no snob. Armed with his selected weapons of war, he stumbled upon the dance floor ready to engage any willing woman whose loneliness gave away to the lure of alcohol and of a late Saturday night.

Not a minute later, he held on to a stranger's outer thigh. Her name was Jane. She was a simple Jane, of that he had no doubt. She rubbed across his body absent-minded of his rising cock. Her hand across his shoulders, he reached into her back pocket and withdrew a few paper bills from that deep crevice of her soft textile. Manny did not care how much was taken as long as it was taken.

After he laid a soft kiss upon her narrow lip, Manny took Plain Jane by the hand and offered to buy her a drink. Luckily he stole enough to cover its cost.

The next morning, with a headache, Manny woke up in a stranger's bed. It was always hard to be a man in America. With so many sheep chewing grass and walking around shopping malls, there was not much more to look forward to. Or at least that was what Manny thought to himself a few months before he met Amanda.

Hard-Boiled Men

Jason seemed excited, fully determined, youthfully unequivocal. He had made up his mind and would not hear otherwise. Despite the expression on her face, despite her threats of walking out on his crazy ass, despite her pleas, he went ahead and placed an order for a full sized residential male urinal. This of course was nothing of the ordinary. He would have nothing but the best. A brand new Steward K-4919 high definition urinal with the splash free surface, the 15-7/8" extended rim and most importantly the three year piss proof warranty. Jason did not care about the cost. He did not care about what other may have to say about it. This was the one thing that would make their home his home. Ever since they moved into together, ever since that annoying conversation about their relationship and where it was all going, Jason had no choice but to reaffirm his territory.

Jessica went out for a cigarette. Little did he know that she quit smoking more than two week ago. But she needed some fresh air. It was time to reassess the whole relationship situation. Urinal or no urinal, there was no real future with Jason and she knew. It wasn’t as if she did not care for the guy. There was no love in the air and they both knew it. So why did she insist that they will move in together? Why did she constantly talk to him about commitment and about the future of their relationship?

More than three years have passed since she last saw Carl. The only man she ever loved. Jessica was a practical woman. She did not have time to dwell on the past. She was a strong female lioness. She was a survivor. Or at least she tried to be.

But sometimes when Jason was asleep, she would curl up closer and smell Carl through that Eternity colon that he wore. If Jason ever had any idea of why it was that she bought him the bottle he would likely punch her directly in her mouth. Instead, he considered it to be a great gift for their two months anniversary. Does anyone ever really know anyone else?

On the corner of 15th and 7th Avenue Jessica noticed a couple walking out of the Chelsmore Apartment building. They seemed in love. The woman was much younger than her blue eyed man. She was beautiful, thin and impressionable. He held on to with much care as if he was holding on to his own flesh.

Jessica was terribly sorry to bother them. She was hoping that they had a cigarette to spare. The young woman offered her a menthol cigarette and handed her a green lighter to match.

Later on, as Jason was washing off his cock in the other room, Jessica laid in bed and cried. She could not help but to think about Carl’s wide shoulders. She thought about the way that he used to hold her in those cold November nights. She thought about the past few years and about where it was all going. She thought about the beautiful young woman who offered her a menthol cigarette and about her blue-eyed man who watched her silently as if to say that she was not the only person in this world who had his face punched in by time.

www.hardboiledmen.com

Nelson’s wedding took place in a house. It was not just a house. It was the house. Sitting pretty on top of the Hollywood Hills, this was the dwelling for many of those California types, those prosperous and much celebrated characters that were displayed on supermarket magazine covers. The same individuals that Christy always spoke of when she sipped her morning coffee at that famous restaurant on the bottom of the Hollywood Hills.

As we drove into that private driveway of this Hollywood gated community, Christy leaned over towards the limo driver and demanded to know whether or not what she heard was true? Was it true that the house really did belong to Sylvester Stallone? Did he really have to sell it after his divorce from Brigitte Nielsen? What it true that Stallone made his film debut with the lead in a 1970 hardcore pornographic film called Party at Kitty and Stud's? Then after that, she asked him a bunch of other questions. She asked the kind of questions that people often asked when they sat around on the bottom of the Hollywood Hills while sipping their non fat lattes and berry flavored ice teas.

I did not know any of the guests who attended the wedding. I never surrounded myself with these kinds of characters. When I met Christy four years ago, she was a go-go dancer who got you off for a wrinkled ten dollar bill. But ever since she made that commercial appearance, after she got her agent and then her manager things turned out differently than they were back in those days.

No more did I have to listen to her bitch about the dirty old men who stuck their fingers in this crack or another. She told no more stories about what she did or did not do to this or that son of a bitch.

Christy’s lies now turned more glamorous than they were during those more difficult days when she first moved from a small Midwestern town to the city of movie star dreams. She no longer had to lie about whether or not she blew a lonely drunk for an extra hundred dollar bill. She now had an excuse, that was the only way to make it in this business, she explained.

Christy walked around the wedding party like a horny hyena who was looking to join the pack. Her luscious body overflowed from her tight Dolce dress. She knew all the right people and made an effort to let it be known. After the seven course meal, the dessert and the after party drinks, Christy took a tour of the house with its owner who just happened to own LA’s ritziest new gourmet restaurant. Her dress turned wrinkled upon her return.

I did not ask too many questions. I was never that type of a guy. I did not converse much with any of the guests. I never knew what to say to strangers at a wedding. I did not have the right answer to that same old question that everyone asked around these parts. An out of work writer from the Valley whose novel sold a mere four thousand books, mostly around New York City, was of now use to these Hollywood parasites who sucked away on the blood of broken dreams.

When I ran out of cigarettes, I walked over to the pool area and overlooked onto that astonishing view of the city. Thousands of lights came together to paint a picture of our collective solitude.

Then she walked over and asked me for a cigarette. I had none to offer. Instead I offered her a sip of my Vodka. She declined. Her name was Carmen and her skin was as olive as a Tuscan wind. She could not have been a day older than seventeen. She told me about the audition she had early in the morning. She asked me what I did around these parts and who I ran around with. Then she saw a person who she just had to talk to and walked away.

I bummed a cigarette from the guy who parked the cars out front. It was getting late and he was growing impatient. He could only hope that these rich bastards would finish up dancing to I Will Survive and call it a night. He had an audition early in the morning, he explained.

He gave me a light and walked away. I slowly inhaled the dirty smoke and wondered what exactly it was that I was doing with my life. I threw the cigarette butt on the floor and walked away. I never liked Camel cigarettes, they always tasted like cancer.

Cajun Crawfish Eating Competition

have been driving for more than seven hours straight when I saw that billboard sign that read "WE BARE IT ALL". Early morning traffic can drive a man insane. That may have been the reason why I chose to pull over and stop in for a beer. What a place to end up in on a Tuesday morning, I thought to myself. About ten minutes south of the serene college town of Gainesville Florida, Café Risqué is a peculiar blend somewhere in between a local Denny's restaurant and a sullied southern strip join. Stale white bread toast and worn down lettuce perfectly complimented those worn out bodies of beaten down women who were embracing those silver stage polls like the children of a neglectful mother. Small town America was always told the very same stories that most of us would rather ignore.

I ordered a light beer and a black coffee with no sugar. Despite Layla's offer, I passed up on the all you can eat breakfast buffet that was situated not too far from those purple sofas were a man could get a lap dance for twenty dollars. Twenty dollars seemed excessive for this hole in the wall nudy bar diner but Sunshine later reassured me of the fact that anytime before six am and noon, the dances went for a mere ten.

I pulled a chair next to Randy.

Alloy wheel is what I sell. He told me. I get paid seventy-five dollars every time I fix one of them sons of bitches. But that is the price I charge the dealerships. If the man off the street hires my services, I charge that son of a bitch a cool hundred. The guy was on his fourth beer and already took Channel for two lap dances in the past twenty five minutes alone. That son of a bitch has a great pair of tits I tell you, I don't mind that they are silicones, that makes the bounce that much more immediate. He lit up a cigarette and offered me one. I had to decline. I gave up smoking more than a month ago. Well, thirty-three days to be exact. Thirty three days and counting.

Men who hung out in titty bars before lunch time were always a unique bunch. I was just surprised to find my way in their midst These men shared a camaraderie that was not that much different from those of men who went off to war together, men who lost it all in the stock market or men who rooted for the New York Jets football team. We all shared a common sense of desperation that brought us closer together.

Randy had a thick southern accent. He drove his truck all the way from the Florida-Georgia state line. I was a Jew and did my best to blend in. There were not too many of us around these parts. None that I knew off in this resturant/bar. Jewish tradition failed to recognize the unique splendor of these cheap dives that were filled with cheap beer and genuine folks who lived their lives from one day to the next. When he asked me where I was from, I tried to change the subject. There was no way to rationalize how a university professor from New York city ended up in a southern truck stop nudy bar on such a strange Tuesday morning.

Let me guess, you are originally from Europe, am I right or am I right? You are right I told him. What are you Czechoslovakian? Russian? Italian? German? I nodded my head and looked for a way out. Luckily Naomi came around with those pointy nipples that one could sharpen an orange peel on. They extended beyond her white tank top as they offered me refuge. I pulled a ten dollar bill out of my pocket and gazed into the eyes of our nation's first secretary of the treasury. Would Mr. Hamilton approve of Naomi's profession? Would he approve of these bad choices that I kept on pursuing on a consistent basis?

She extended her reassuring hand and I collapsed my foolish fingers into her comfort. Her touch reminded me of Joanna's familiar console in those days before she changed her mind. Don't worry honey, Naomi told me, I promise not to bite, that is unless you want me to. She must have been about nineteen years of age. Poor white trash that wore a rich friendly smile.

What would ever posses a woman to bounce her breasts in the slippery mouths of perverted truck drivers, alloy wheel salesmen and university professors for a mere ten dollars a pop? She had the kind of a body that any man could only dream about knowing. A woman of her caliber could have had her choice of top sirloin cuts instead of picking from the bottom.

If she really wanted my opinion, if she seeked my advice, I would suggest that Naomi would drive up to the University of Florida's law library were enterprising future tax attorneys and court room litigators spent lonely hours at the time. Any of these men would provide a brighter future than did Café Risque's regular clients. Naomi must have not known about the lonely schmucks up at the university. She must have not realized just how difficult it was for many of them to find a woman, any woman and most of all a good looking woman with a tight young body and pointy nipples to go along.

How else would you explain her choice of careers?

When I came back to the table, Randy was all smiles. OOOOWEEEEEE he proclaimed. That fine little thing must have flossed your gums and in between your teeth with them pointy things.

I shook my head and ordered us both another round of drinks.

It was getting late, almost Eight o'clock when I finally walked into the Beth Israel synagogue. There was not a seat to be found. With my formal black suite on and my hair combed to the left, I placed an unsoiled yamaka on my head and located one of the few prayer books that were left on the wooden display.

I looked about the faces of my people who were celebrating the Rosh Hashanah holidy. Families sat together in an embrace of the high holidays. There was a real sense of spirituality in the air. When the Rabi told us to rise, I lowered my eyes towards the ancient Hebrew texts and said a silent prayor for my newly found friends Randy and Naomi. In their loneliness, I affirmed my own.

WWW.HARDBOILEDMEN.COM

My writing is inspired by the genius of other authors. I love Bukowski and Henry Miller but am often suprised to discover less known authors whose unique writing style shows me a new angle. Take for example Frederick Exley, a lesser known author whose great work A Fan's Notes serves as inspiration for novel that I am currently working on (will be ready in a few years :)

Guy
www.hardboiledmen.com

I have been driving for more than seven hours straight when I saw that billboard sign that read “WE BARE IT ALL”. Early morning traffic can drive a man insane. That may have been the reason why I chose to pull over and stop in for a beer. What a place to end up in on a Tuesday morning, I thought to myself. About ten minutes south of the serene college town of Gainesville Florida, Café Risqué is a peculiar blend somewhere in between a local Denny’s restaurant and a sullied southern strip join. Stale white bread toast and worn down lettuce perfectly complimented those worn out bodies of beaten down women who were embracing those silver stage polls like the children of a neglectful mother. Small town America was always told the very same stories that most of us would rather ignore.

I ordered a light beer and a black coffee with no sugar. Despite Layla’s offer, I passed up on the all you can eat breakfast buffet that was situated not too far from those purple sofas were a man could get a lap dance for twenty dollars. Twenty dollars seemed excessive for this hole in the wall nudy bar diner but Sunshine later reassured me of the fact that anytime before six am and noon, the dances went for a mere ten.

I pulled a chair next to Randy.

Alloy wheel is what I sell. He told me. I get paid seventy-five dollars every time I fix one of them sons of bitches. But that is the price I charge the dealerships. If the man off the street hires my services, I charge that son of a bitch a cool hundred. The guy was on his fourth beer and already took Channel for two lap dances in the past twenty five minutes alone. That son of a bitch has a great pair of tits I tell you, I don’t mind that they are silicones, that makes the bounce that much more immediate. He lit up a cigarette and offered me one. I had to decline. I gave up smoking more than a month ago. Well, thirty-three days to be exact. Thirty three days and counting.

Men who hung out in titty bars before lunch time were always a unique bunch. I was just surprised to find my way in their midst These men shared a camaraderie that was not that much different from those of men who went off to war together, men who lost it all in the stock market or men who rooted for the New York Jets football team. We all shared a common sense of desperation that brought us closer together.

Randy had a thick southern accent. He drove his truck all the way from the Florida-Georgia state line. I was a Jew and did my best to blend in. There were not too many of us around these parts. None that I knew off in this resturant/bar. Jewish tradition failed to recognize the unique splendor of these cheap dives that were filled with cheap beer and genuine folks who lived their lives from one day to the next. When he asked me where I was from, I tried to change the subject. There was no way to rationalize how a university professor from New York city ended up in a southern truck stop nudy bar on such a strange Tuesday morning.

Let me guess, you are originally from Europe, am I right or am I right? You are right I told him. What are you Czechoslovakian? Russian? Italian? German? I nodded my head and looked for a way out. Luckily Naomi came around with those pointy nipples that one could sharpen an orange peel on. They extended beyond her white tank top as they offered me refuge. I pulled a ten dollar bill out of my pocket and gazed into the eyes of our nation’s first secretary of the treasury. Would Mr. Hamilton approve of Naomi’s profession? Would he approve of these bad choices that I kept on pursuing on a consistent basis?

She extended her reassuring hand and I collapsed my foolish fingers into her comfort. Her touch reminded me of Joanna’s familiar console in those days before she changed her mind. Don’t worry honey, Naomi told me, I promise not to bite, that is unless you want me to. She must have been about nineteen years of age. Poor white trash that wore a rich friendly smile.

What would ever posses a woman to bounce her breasts in the slippery mouths of perverted truck drivers, alloy wheel salesmen and university professors for a mere ten dollars a pop? She had the kind of a body that any man could only dream about knowing. A woman of her caliber could have had her choice of top sirloin cuts instead of picking from the bottom.

If she really wanted my opinion, if she seeked my advice, I would suggest that Naomi would drive up to the University of Florida’s law library were enterprising future tax attorneys and court room litigators spent lonely hours at the time. Any of these men would provide a brighter future than did Café Risque’s regular clients. Naomi must have not known about the lonely schmucks up at the university. She must have not realized just how difficult it was for many of them to find a woman, any woman and most of all a good looking woman with a tight young body and pointy nipples to go along.

How else would you explain her choice of careers?

When I came back to the table, Randy was all smiles. OOOOWEEEEEE he proclaimed. That fine little thing must have flossed your gums and in between your teeth with them pointy things.

I shook my head and ordered us both another round of drinks.

It was getting late, almost Eight o’clock when I finally walked into the Beth Israel synagogue. There was not a seat to be found. With my formal black suite on and my hair combed to the left, I placed an unsoiled yamaka on my head and located one of the few prayer books that were left on the wooden display.

I looked about the faces of my people who were celebrating the Rosh Hashanah holidy. Families sat together in an embrace of the high holidays. There was a real sense of spirituality in the air. When the Rabi told us to rise, I lowered my eyes towards the ancient Hebrew texts and said a silent prayor for my newly found friends Randy and Naomi. In their loneliness, I affirmed my own.

WWW.HARDBOILEDMEN.COM

Check out any of the following Squidoo pages, great videos and info:

Book Festivals: www.squidoo.com/bookfestivals
Charles Bukowski: www.squidoo.com/bukowski/
Henry Miller: www.squidoo.com/henrymiller/
Hard-Boiled Men: www.squidoo.com/hardboiledmen/
Mike Dojc: www.squidoo.com/lensmasters/MikeDojc

Every year thousands of authors, exhibitors and readers join together to eat exotic foods, pay two dollar per water bottle and talk books and literature. Here is a list of the top 10 book fairs going on this year. For more go to the book festival link on the sidebar.

Top Five USA Book Festivals:

1. Los Angeles Times Festival of Books April
2. Miami Book Fair International November
3. Arizona Book Festival April
4. Boston Globe Book Festival October
5. Bay Area Storytelling Festival May
5 .National Book Festival September
6. Printers Row Book Fair June
7. Texas Book Festival November
8. Great Salt Lake Book Festival October
9. Festival of Reading November
10 The Hoosier Storytelling Festival October

For more: www.hardboiledmen.com

Anyone out there into Frederick Exley (A Fan's Notes) besides me? :)

"You know, Socrates once said that once made equal to man, woman became his superior"
"You think?" hit lit another cigarette. This may have been his fourth within the last six minutes. Joe did not need Socrates to explain to him just how much of a shmok he was for waiting around for this woman who he barely knew.

"Well you know, she is sort of like a friend of my sister's, I don't want to have any headaches later on when I go home.

I stared at the long line of people who were standing in front of the Purdy Lounge. The array of long olive skinned legs did not mix well with the pink neon that reflected from the club's shady windows. It was getting late now. The night in South Beach always begun around 2am and I was already ready to go to sleep. I was too old for this shit.

"I'll give her ten more minutes, and then, if she doesn't show up, we will just go in without her."

Joe seemed nervous; he was checking his cell phone every two minutes for a text message from this woman while trying to balance his cigarette with the other hand.

I took my cell phone out of my pocket. There was only one person who may possibly have called me at such a late hour, but she was probably lying in bed with another man these days. I think it was Henry Kissinger who once said that no one could ever win the battle of the sexes because there was too much fraternizing with the enemy.

My club sandwich came out of the kitchen at 2:45am. I could tell the time from the large clock on the diner wall. Joe went out side to smoke a cigarette and to, perhaps, once again find the lost text message on his voicemail. I asked the waitress for ketchup. In the adjacent booth, I saw a young couple kissing.

PageOneLit.com: Who were your earliest influences and why?

Guy Jacobs: It is difficult to choose one writer over another. Henry Miller, Charles Bukowski and Fredrick Exley are all amazing writers whose honesty drips through the pages of their works. Reading these guys taught me one simple rule about writing fiction, if you are going to hold anything back, don't bother in the first place.

PageOneLit.com: Why do you write?

Guy Jacobs: I guess we all write because we are not brave enough to talk about it.

PageOneLit.com: In 10 words or less describe your new book "HARD-BOILED MEN."

Guy Jacobs: An honest depiction of the thoughts and experiences of a single man

PageOneLit.com: "HARD-BOILED MEN" is sharp, tight, funny and honest. You pull no punches - How would you describe your style/voice?

Guy Jacobs: I think you did a pretty good job answering that question just now

PageOneLit.com: Your novel is set against the background of New York City. To a large extent it almost feels like the city is one of the main characters in the novel. Why did you select to emphasize NYC so much in your novel?

Guy Jacobs: One of the main issues that my novel deals with is single life for a man in his mid-thirties. Single life can at times feel exciting and at times lonely, at times enthralling and at times cold. I believe that no city better represents these emotions better than New York. I could not think of a better place to live but then again, I would not bring this city home to meet my mother.

PageOneLit.com: Who is Benjamin Wise? How much of the author is in this character?

Guy Jacobs: Benjamin Wise is myself, my best friend, the guy I borrowed twenty bucks from and never paid back as well as a few other people that I ran across in my times. I do not think that anyone can write a novel that doesn't have some biographical elements in it but I would not admit to anything I wrote down.

PageOneLit.com: "HARD-BOILED MEN" has been well reviewed/received. It won runner up awards for best works of fiction in book festivals in New York and Los Angeles. For a first novel are you just warming up? How important are the accolades?

Guy Jacobs: Any award is gratifying but I was most excited by a couple of letters that I received from readers who connected to my novel. It is amazing how many people related to Ben Wise who much like them left the love of their life behind and ended up marrying somebody else.

PageOneLit.com: Plot or Character - Which do you feel is more important and why?

Guy Jacobs: I have read some great books that had no plot but had great characters. By the same token, I enjoyed the opposite as well. A good book makes you think about it a few weeks after you finished reading it.

PageOneLit.com: What did you learn from writing "HARD-BOILED MEN"?

Guy Jacobs: I learned that four years are not enough to write a single novel. While I am happy with the book, I could easily spend a few more years on it.

PageOneLit.com: What's next?

Guy Jacobs: I am writing a new novel, something completely different than Hard-Boiled Men. You probably want to know what the book is about, but hey, ask me again in about four years.

PageOneLit.com: What was the last book you read?

Guy Jacobs: I recently reread the Paint Bird by Jerzy Kosinski, one of the best novels ever written. Kosinski paints a daunting picture of what could happen if you took away food, sleep and water from any of us for more than a couple of days. The book reminds me of a Tom Waits lyric that claimed that "If there is one thing you can say about mankind is that there is nothing kind about man."

The Painted Bird is a nothing short of a masterpiece. It is a bit depressing but it is definitely thought provoking.

PageOneLit.com: What do you think is the most important element of writing good fiction?

Guy Jacobs: Good fiction writers pay close attention to the details of real life.

http://www.pageonelit.com/interviews/GuyJacobs.html