First Featured Author Ever: Marie Sexton

 I met Marie Sexton through twitter and her blog Coffee and Porn in the Morning. I was trying to make sense of the whole social network thing (still am) and she talked back. I know it's such a small thing, talk to me and I will roll over and kick my leg, okay, no, not even for the husband. But she talked to me and the more we talked the more I came to like her, we share a fondness for music (read below) and dirty pictures, (see her site but not with kids around or old people or cats). She is also a wonderful writer. I just finished Between Sinners and Saints and lets just say I am not prepared to talk about it, and my bum hurts from sitting all day long to read it, but it was worth every tissue and--okay shutting up now so Marie can have the floor...

P.S Go buy it you won't regret it....shh, zipping lip... 

Marie Sexton

“Why?”

Such a simple question. How many times a day do we ask, “Why?” How many times do we hear it? It’s probably the first question we ask as a child, and as any parent can tell you, it never seems to stop. Is there any mother who hasn’t felt she’d scream if she heard it even one more time from her toddler: “Why? Why? WHY?” Until at last, short of both time and answers, she blurts out, “Because I said so! That’s why!”

Because I said so.

It doesn’t matter how many times we swore in our pre-kid years that we would never do this, because the truth is, we WILL. Eventually, we’ll realize that even though the question may seem important to child, the answer to the question just isn’t. Sometimes, it really is enough to simply say, “Because.” Sometimes, things just ARE. Because that’s life. Because that’s fate, or personal preference, or just plain blind luck. Because.

Because I said so.

Especially when it comes to matters of personal taste, I think the question “Why?” is often pointless. Personal preference may stem from our history, but the psychological roots are often too deep for most of us to find. For all intents and purposes, there is no why. There’s only opinion.

I think back to my early adolescent years, when my good friend had a bookshelf full of Sweet Valley High romances and just as many knock-offs. “Why don’t you like them?” she asked.

 I had no answer. I didn’t like them because I liked other things. I liked Alan Dean Foster’s work instead, especially the Spellsinger series. I liked the Dragonlance books. I liked space stories. Why? I didn’t know. I just did. Sure, I could give answers: I liked fantasy. I liked magic. I liked Mudge, the horny talking otter. But when the “why?” wanted to push beyond that, it became obnoxious: Why did I like fantasy? Was it because my home life was hard? (It wasn’t.) Or because I was still angry over my parents’ divorce? (I wasn’t that, either.) Was it because I needed to escape? (Well, maybe.) But the truth was, I thought it was because Mudge was god damn funny. Wasn’t that enough?

In junior high, we were told to bring our cassette tapes in to be played at the school dance. I can remember the look the girl gave me as I handed her my collection of Ratt, Motley Crue, Bon Jovi and Metallica (none of which she played, I might add). I remember her asking me, “You don’t like Madonna?” My withering stare must have been answer enough, because she asked next (you guessed it), “Why?”

I thought it was obvious: because my mom liked Bob Seger, my stepdad liked Men at Work, and my biological father split his musical tastes between Aerosmith and Hank Williams, Jr. Because in fifth grade, my cousin handed me a Quiet Riot tape, and I was never quite the same. It was that simple. 

Wasn’t it?

But again, an answer that mundane wasn’t enough. There were other theories. According to Tipper Gore and her PMRC (going full-speed at the time), my preference for metal music indicated that I was angry, or deranged, or maybe even sociopathic. Maybe I’d been brainwashed. Very possibly, I was suicidal. Why else would I listen to music like that?

I didn’t know. I was a teenager, so of course I was angry, but I didn’t think I was deranged or sociopathic. I didn’t remember being brainwashed, and I knew I wasn’t suicidal. But I still preferred Megadeth to Depeche Mode.

Sometimes, things just ARE. We like what we like. We dislike other things. Sometimes there are reasons, but sometimes there aren’t. I’d rather watch Criminal Minds than Glee. Why? Well, why the fuck not? I’d rather wear red than green, and I prefer white to black. Does it matter? I’m sure I could find some blog guru who would try to tell me how those preferences are indicative of some deep-seated psychological traits, but frankly, I think it’s mostly bullshit.

Of course the “why?” I seem to be hearing all the time now is in regard to m/m romance. Why do I write it? Why do I like it? Why do I not like het romance? Why don’t I want girls in my porn? Stating that those things are simply my preference seems to never be enough. There’s always somebody else asking, “Why?”

I thought about it. The truth is, I thought about it a lot! I obsessed over it. I even found some answers. I let myself get sucked into the drama and the reasoning and the armchair psychology, and I’m not sorry I did. I learned a great deal about myself in the process. But now, having emerged on the other side, I have to admit, I’m tired of worrying about it. I really am. I will never again rip out a piece of my soul and share it with the world in an attempt to explain something that needs no explanation.

Why do I like these things? Because I do. It’s personal preference. That’s all. Just like my music. Just like my choice of TV shows or movies. Just like my decision so long ago to read Ender’s Game while all my friends read Clan of the Cave Bear. Just like my decision now to read World War Z instead of Jodi Piccoult. I can posit that it’s because I’m angry, or oppressed, or free-spirited, or because my daddy hurt my feelings once when I was five. But really, who cares?

Not me.

So next time somebody asks me “Why?”, I’m going to give them the best answer I have:

“Because I said so.”

Between Sinners and Saints

Levi Binder is a Miami bartender who cares about only two things: sex and surfing.  Ostracized by his Mormon family for his homosexuality, Levi is determined to live his life his own way, but everything changes when he meets massage therapist Jaime Marshall.

Jaime is used to being alone.  Haunted by the horrors of his past, his only friend is his faithful dog, Dolly.  He has no idea how to handle somebody as gorgeous and vibrant as Levi.

Complete opposites on the surface, Levi and Jaime both long for something that they can only find together.  Through love and the therapeutic power of touch, they’ll find a way to heal each other, and they’ll learn to live as sinners in a family of saints.

Marie Sexton lives in Colorado. She’s a fan of just about anything that involves muscular young men piling on top of each other. In particular, she loves the Denver Broncos and enjoys going to the games with her husband. Her imaginary friends often tag along. Marie has one daughter, two cats, and one dog, all of whom seem bent on destroying what remains of her sanity. She loves them anyway.

Visit Marie’s website at http://mariesexton.net/, follow her on Facebook and Twitter, join her mailing list, and absolutely don’t forget to check out her tumblr. (Tumblr NOT work safe.) And there’s always her email.