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Confessions of a Winter Lover
My name is G.R. Richards and I hate the summertime.
Sorry to shock you. I know how offended people become when I make this one particularly controversial remark. It's a near-sinful admission. When I make it, I'm often greeted with questions like, "What?" and "How could you?" and "Why?" and "Didn't you write a book for a series called Hot Summer Daze?"
To answer all four questions, I could simply say, "It's the heat. I hate the sticky, smoggy, humid disgustingness of summer." I could say that, but, of course, it's not that simple.
In part, I hate the summertime because it's not the wintertime. Yeah, that sounds a little...okay...stupid. I admit it. And I am partial to spring and fall, but winter...oh, winter! How do I love thee?
It's the snow. To me, winter means snow. I can handle the winds that cut through five layers of fleece and chill you to the bone if it means a snowfall might be on the way. There is nothing on the planet more beautiful to me than snow: kids building snowmen on the front lawn, dragging toboggans to the nearest hill, helping their parents shovel the driveway.
Let me share with you a wintery memory, if I may:
Enjoy the season!
You would never know it by the love of public television documentaries and great food in high end restaurants, but G.R. Richards pens some of the world's hottest guy-on-guy erotica. Richards is no stranger to a bed damp with sweat, or the sweetness of bodies pressed together. There's a reason guys growl for G.R. Richards Erotica.
Ten or so years ago, on a snowy Saturday morning, my then-boyfriend's car broke down--a winter reality. I know it's not all fun and games. Anyway, we got the car to a garage and decided to wander over to a nearby greasy spoon for breakfast. The snow was nearly to our knees, but we trudged on through.
When the restaurant was near, we climbed up a little hill...and I watched him fall flat on his face in the snow. He'd tripped on one of those cement block dealies they have around the outskirts of parking lots, and he was covered head to toe in virgin white.
I laughed my ass off. It was the funniest thing I'd every seen.
And as I pointed and laughed and kept on walking...trip...fall...splat! I stumbled over the same damn cement block and went right down beside him. He propped himself up on his elbow as I looked up from the snow, stunned.
And he pointed at me and laughed his ass off.
Then he helped me up and I helped him up, and we laughed even as our waitress gave us dirty looks for dripping all over our booth.
Okay, so loving the wintertime doesn't necessarily mean I should have to hate the summertime. After all, summer is the time of year I start writing Christmas stories for all you wonderful readers to enjoy in the winter! Vintage Toys for Lucky Boys, Junk, Ivy League...these were all written in the hazy days of summer, and all available now for your reading pleasure.