Please welcome Neil Plakcy to the blog, author of Three Wrong Turns in the Desert (among lots of other books). Thank you for agreeing to answer my nosy questions and share them with everyone visiting today.

Q: To begin, please share which genre(s) you write in…
A: I began in gay mystery, where I have published four novels so far about an openly gay homicide detective in Honolulu. The first was Mahu, followed by Mahu Surfer, Mahu Fire and Mahu Vice. A collection of mystery and erotic stories about my hero, called Mahu Men, is coming out in the winter, and then the next novel, Mahu Blood, in summer 2010. But I’ve always been a romance fan, too, and have published two M/M romance novels, GayLife.com and Three Wrong Turns in the Desert. I also write gay erotica, and have published a whole lot of those stories, as well as editing three erotica anthologies for Cleis Press (Hard Hats, Surfer Boys, and Skater Boys, due out in 2010.)

Q: How long did you write before you received your first contract for publication?
A: I started writing when I was fifteen, and the first story I got paid for was a piece of gay erotica called “The Cop Who Caught Me,” published in Mandate magazine when I was about 25. So ten years for a story. But my first novel wasn’t published until I was 45—a pretty long thirty years of writing!

Q: Out of all the stories you’ve written, which is your favorite?
A: Not so much a story as a character. My Honolulu homicide detective, Kimo Kanapa’aka, gets dragged out of the closet while investigating a big case in Mahu. He just wouldn’t let go of my imagination, so I started writing short stories that continued his life. Once Mahu was published I felt I could invest the time in another novel, and from there the books just kept flowing. But I also really love Three Wrong Turns in the Desert, because it’s like wish fulfillment for me—meet a handsome guy and have steamy sex and great adventures with him!

Q: Do you need to be in a specific place or atmosphere before the words flow?
A: I write a lot at Starbucks. There are a half dozen within a few miles of my home and college office, and I’ve found that I can sit down there, despite the music and conversation around me, and plunge write into writing. At home there are too many other distractions like dog, books, computer games, and my partner. (In no particular order.)

Q: What’s the strangest source of inspiration you’ve found for a story?
A: How about a hurricane? I was inspired by a pretty heavy hurricane season here in South Florida to write “Storm Report,” a fun piece of erotica about a handsome guy who my hero discovers in his yard during the eye of a storm.

Q: If you could offer one tidbit of information for new writers, what would it be?
A: Keep reading and keep writing. You improve with practice. So even if your first story is crap, or your first draft is lousy, you’ll get better if you stick with it. If writing is important to you, dedicate time to it as often as you can—every day, if possible.

Q: Do you have an evil day job or do you write full time?
A: I am a professor of English at our local community college. I focus on teaching kids to write better, and I’m always worried that their bad habits will rub off on me!

Q: Name one thing readers would be surprised to learn about you.
A: I have a temper. I may seem like a nice guy but I love a good shouting match with my partner.

Q: What’s your favorite dirty word?
A: Let’s see, is dick a dirty word? Because it’s sure my favorite body part.

Q: Do you have any tattoos or piercings?
A: No, I’m too chicken.

Q: If you could be intimate with three people (not necessarily all at one time *g*) without getting in trouble with your significant other, who would they be?
A: John Barrowman. Rupert Everett. And any really ripped gay porn star.

Q: If you won the lottery tomorrow, what would you spend the money on?
A: Retirement so I can focus on writing.

Q: Which household chore do you abhor and why?
A: I don’t like washing the dog. He’s big and shaggy and likes to shake.

Q: What’s your favorite comfort food?
A: Shell macaroni with butter and grated cheese.

Q: Do you have a favorite book or movie?
A: The book that inspired me to become a writer is A Separate Peace, by John Knowles. There’s sure a lot of gay subtext there, but I didn’t get it when I was in 10th grade.

Q: If you don’t mind sharing, would you tell us about your latest work in progress?
A: I’m polishing up a final draft of the second Aidan and Liam M/M romance. I get to spend time in Tunisia in my head with two terrific sexy guys.

Q: In closing, tell us a bit about your latest release (& share a yummy excerpt for those who aren’t yet familiar with your work)
A: My most recent book is Three Wrong Turns in the Desert.

From the moment he sees handsome Liam McCullough showering naked behind a Tunisian bar, ESL teacher Aidan Greene wants to screw the sexy bodyguard. At first, though, a dead courier and beefy hired thugs get in the way. But Liam soon convinces him — with wiles and smiles and solid logic — to join him on a race across the desert for a rendezvous with a Tuareg tribe at a remote oasis. Then nothing can stop them from getting naked and getting it on. Together they explore the passion Liam hid from as a closeted Navy SEAL, and the love Aidan’s missed after his long term boyfriend kicked him to the curb.

From the back of a motorcycle to a Turkish bath to a remote dune in the desert, these two Romeos find ways to bring each other to the heights of pleasure. So what if they’re carrying the password to a million-dollar Swiss bank account and being chased by Libyan intelligence agents determined to stop them at all costs? Love and lust fuel their passion and not even three wrong turns in the desert will keep them from surviving this adventure alive — and together.

Excerpt:

All morning, Aidan Greene kept thinking of the naked man he had seen behind the bar the day before. To shut up his subconscious he retraced his steps to the place he discovered was called the Bar Mamounia. A pair of Tunisian men sat in one corner of the bar as he pushed through the beadwork curtain once again; he couldn’t tell if they were the same men who’d been there the day before. The same bald bartender was behind the bar, this time working on what looked like accounting, rows of numbers interspersed with sprawling Arabic script. He looked up at Aidan and said, “Salaam Aleykum.”

Aidan knew that meant hello, and that the proper response was “Aleykum Salaam.” But just so the bartender didn’t get the wrong idea, he said the only other Arabic phrase he knew, “Mish bakalum arabee,” which meant “I don’t speak Arabic.”

The bartender just looked at him. Aidan pointed at a bottle of Sidi Rais, which the guidebook had said was a dry white wine, and asked for a glass in his schoolboy French.

The bartender seemed to understand. Aidan asked, continuing in French, about the man he’d seen the day before.

“Monsieur Liam,” the bartender said, pronouncing it Lee-ahm. In French, he said, “Yes, he stays across the yard.” He pointed out the window to a small stucco one-story house, hemmed in on both sides by taller buildings. A faded off-white, it had rough walls and windows that were merely slits. Closer examination showed a cistern on the roof, with a hose that ran to the shower.

Aidan drank his wine while thinking how stupid he was to have come back this way. He had a picture of the sexy, naked man imprinted in his brain, and that would have to be enough for a while. He sipped from his glass and then a voice behind him said, “The white wine in this place tastes like horse piss. You’ve got to drink the red.”

He turned around and saw Liam there. He was even better-looking up close than he had been across the yard, sexier somehow in clothing than he had been naked. His sheer physicality was awesome—his height, his brawn. Aidan’s dick sprung to attention. “Have you tried it?” he asked. “Horse piss?”

Liam laughed. “You bet. Camel piss, too. Horse is saltier.” He beckoned to the bartender and said something in Arabic. Aidan caught the words Vieux Magon, which he assumed was the name of the wine.

Then Liam turned to Aidan. “Don’t get many Americans down this way. I’m always pleased to meet another.” He extended his hand. “Liam McCullough.”

Aidan was too astonished to even tell the man his name. The fact that his fantasy had come to life, and was talking to him, was so surprising, so erotic, that all he could do was nod along. The bartender brought two balloon glasses of rich, ruby-colored wine, and Liam said, “Let’s take a table.”

He led Aidan across the room to the far corner and sat down, straddling the metal-backed wooden chair. He wore a vest of supple leather, which hung open, exposing his muscular chest, though Aidan noted that the two nipple rings were gone. Liam’s dun-colored cotton drawstring shorts reached just below his knees. On his feet, he wore a pair of brown leather sandals.

Up close, he smelled like lavender. Aidan could see that Liam’s hair was longer than he’d thought the day before, and a fuzz of light brown hair covered his chin, like a scruffy Hollywood movie star. Aidan took a sip of his wine. It tasted as rich as it looked, with notes of cherry and lemon. He’d taken a wine appreciation course back in Philadelphia, but he didn’t remember tasting anything like that.

“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together,” Liam said. He smiled, and Aidan’s heart did a quick flip-flop. “So let me spell out some ground rules. I have to know where you are all the time, and if I say you can’t go somewhere, you can’t go. You don’t know Tunisia like I do.”

He took a drink of wine. Aidan just stared at him. Who the hell did he think he was? And he’d thought Blake was controlling. Maybe he’d been wrong the day before. Suppose this handsome god of a man was gay, and he’d noticed Aidan staring at him. Or not—Blake had always said Aidan’s mannerisms gave him away as gay. The guy could have come into the bar and pegged Aidan for a quick fuck.

He had goose bumps up and down his arms at the thought of this man touching him, holding him, entering him, and he couldn’t help smiling back. It was gaydar, he thought. A straight man wouldn’t look you in the eyes, wouldn’t return a glance of interest.

Aidan’s dick, which had stiffened as soon as he laid eyes on Liam, was still jammed against the fabric of his shorts. He longed for some physical contact to confirm his feelings—perhaps just pressing his leg against the other man’s in passing, the casual touch of Liam’s fingers on Aidan’s shoulder.

They talked for a few minutes—what Aidan thought of Tunis, the sirocco wind, the taste of the wine. It had been a long time since a man flirted with him, and Aidan felt like one of the Roman ruins the guidebook said had been covered by centuries of sand, finally exposed by the desert wind. His heart beat faster and his dick pulsed in his shorts. The wine was going to his head, and he enjoyed the sense that he had no idea what was going to happen next.

Then Liam drank the last few ounces of his wine in a single gulp. “Let’s go,” he said. “I want to see your place.”

He stood up. Aidan couldn’t help it; he thought the guy was incredibly sexy. He’d always been attracted to take-charge men, though Liam was coming on stronger than any guy he’d ever met. But hey, he’d been out of the dating pool for eleven years, so maybe the rules had changed. He tossed down the rest of his wine and stood himself, unsteady on his feet.

The bartender called Liam over, and Aidan stepped out into the intense sunshine ahead of him, his eyes wincing at the brightness. It was earlier than when he’d visited the bar the day before, and there was a lot of activity on the street, young kids playing noisily, two women in head scarves and floral print dresses arguing, a motorcycle gunning just ahead.

Coming toward him, Aidan saw a man, obviously American, about his height, age and build. Looking at his face, Aidan felt a shock of recognition. It was almost like looking in a mirror, distorted a bit by age and coloring.

The man wore a dark suit, a white shirt and navy blue tie, and sweat dripped down his forehead. Tunis was hot, hotter than any place Aidan had ever been. He was sweating himself, and he was wearing a lightweight cotton T-shirt and shorts.
The man’s eyes darted left and right, as if he was scanning the street for danger, and Aidan wondered if that’s the way he looked, roaming around the streets of Tunis with only half an idea of what was going on. The traffic of the street eddied and swirled around the American, but there was an invisible barrier around him that no one wanted to cross.

The motorcycle Aidan had heard gunning came up close behind the American, and with horror Aidan watched as the cyclist raised a hand holding a gun. Three short bursts of noise blasted across the street, and the American fell to the street as the motorcycle sped away.

---

To learn more about Neil Plakcy, please visit www.mahubooks.com.