Sunday, July 28, 2013

Erotic Romance Inspiration through Hip Hop.

Advance Reader Copies are available, Request it HERE

I love all types of music, but when people see me on a day to day basis they're thinking. . .

"Hey that's that weird, hippy chick with the flip flops and shirts with crude sayings on the front." 

"Isn't she like the only person in Miami that screams out Thom Yorke lyrics in the drop-off line of her kids' elementary school?"

thom yorke gif photo: no suprises thom yorke nosurprises.gif

"Does she even know she's black?"

I do.

Kind of. . .

I spent my entire teens and and early twenties, spouting out rap lyrics that talked about how black women are hoes and sluts and blah blah! I love the classic stuff and even some of the few hip hop artists out today. But nowadays, I pretty much only listen to odd alternative craziness!

So one day I'm talking to D.T. Dyllin

Me: Dude, we have to write a book together!

D.T.: Sounds good. What should we do? I vote steam punk!

Me: Hmmm. Let's do some crazy dark, gritty futuristic world with like people flying and shit, and tons of androids all over the place.

D.T.: Uh. . .ooookaaayyy. I just want the female to be strong and alpha. And I want to have awesome clothes.

So as I'm chatting with her, this video comes on my tv called "Bag of Money" by Wale featuring Rick Ross, and a bunch of other guys I don't usually listen to.

Yet. . .the lyrics just hit me!

My bitch bad, looking like a bag of money.
My bitch bad, looking like a bag of money.
I go and get it, and I let her count it for me.
I do her good, and she always ride it for me.

Granted, this is not Yeats. lol! But in my mind I see this wicked female that no man can handle or tame, the type of women that D.T. wants to write on our project.

And so I listen some more.

She got me caught up in the moment

She bad, she bad bad bad.

D.T. and I start talking and talking. . . by that time, I'm constantly replaying this freaking "Bag of Money" video on youtube.

Days pass.

We're emailing suggestions back and forth.

I can't remember who says it, but I think D.T. says, "Let's do a futuristic Bonnie and Clyde!"

And I say, "let's have the hero with an artificial eye."

And I'm still playing the video over and over and over. . . 

Finally, it is my turn to start the book's first chapter. I'm nervous, yet I play the song. . .the first scene comes to me immediately...

I see a strip club, in the future. . .and my hero getting ready to rob it., and the whole time that video played in the background.


My dick pressed against my pants—hard, long, and ready—
but it wasn't the nude girls dancing around me with luscious
curves and jeweled skin that incited the erection. It was
the hit—the guns my brothers and I wielded in our hands
charged with siphons, the electronic currency stuffed in
the pockets of drooling men who copped a touch of the
dancers when the bouncers weren't looking, and of course,
it was the rush of the quake I’d just snorted.

Heart-pounding music drummed in my ears. The song
had a heavy bass and an omnichord melody. Something
similar to the music I played before my criminal activities
shift ed from a past-time thing to a full-time necessity, prior
to Mom’s death, and well before Dad’s mental demise. Our
parents birthed ten kids. My brothers and I were the oldest.
When Mom and Dad died, we became parents overnight.

Shitty parents.

“Epic, are you okay?” Toy nudged my shoulder. . .

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